e5E 


LAZARUS 

By  LEONID  ANDREYEV 


The  Gentleman  from 
San  Francisco 

By  IVAN  BUNIN 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


^ 


LAZARUS 


THE   GENTLEMAN  FROM 
SAN  FRANCISCO 


STRATFORD  UNIVERSAL  LIBRARY 


LAZARUS 

By  LEONID  ANDREYEV 


The  Gentleman  from  San  Francisco 

By   IVAN    BUNIN 


Translated  by 

Abraham  Yarmolinsky 


BOSTON 

The  Stratford  Company,  Publishers 

1918 


Foreword 


PQr 

BSE 


Lazarus  and  The  Gentleman  from  San  Francisco,  while 
fairly  typical  of  Slavic  literature,  nevertheless  contain  few  of 
the  elements  popularly  associated  with  the  work  of  contemporary 
Russian  writers.  They  have  no  sex  interest,  no  photographic 
descriptions  of  sordid  conditions  and  no  lugubrious  philosophiz- 
ing. These  stories  are  not  cheerful,  yet  their  sadness  is  up- 
lifting rather  than  depressing.  They  both  contain  what  the 
Greek  called  katharsis  in  their  tragedies, — that  cleansing  atmo- 
sphere which  purges  us  of  every  baser  feeling  as  we  read  them. 

In  Lazarus  Andreyev  has  come  as  near  as  it  is  humanly 
possible  to  achieving  the  impossible.  He  has  made  concretely 
vivid  an  abstraction;  he  has  arrested  for  an  instant  the  cease- 
less, unmeasurable  flood  of  eternity;  he  has  enclosed  in  a  small 
frame  the  boundless  void  of  the  infinite.  That  which  no  human 
faculty  can  understand  Andreyev  has  made  almost  intelligible. 
For  a  terrible  moment  he  unveils  the  the  secrets  of  the  grave, 
and  together  with  Augustus  and  the  others  who  have  come 
under  the  spell  of  Lazarus'  eyes,  we  see  how  the  most  enduring 
of  human  monuments  crumble  into  chaos  even  at  the  instant 
when  they  are  being  built,  how  nations  upon  nations  tower  like 
the  shadows  of  silent  ghosts,  rising  out  of  nothingness  and  sink- 
ing instantaneously  into  nothingness  again,  "for  Time  was  no 
more,  and  the  beginning  of  all  things  came  near  their  end:  the 
building  was  still  being  built,  and  the  builders  were  still  ham- 
mering away,  and  its  ruins  were  already  seen  and  the  void  in 
its  place;  the  man  was  still  being  bom,  but  already  funeral 
candles  were  burning  at  his  head,  and  now  they  were  extin- 
guished, and  there  was  the  void  in  place  of  the  man  and  of  the 
funeral  candles.  And  wrapped  by  void  and  darkness  the  man 
in  despair  trembled  in  the  face  of  the  Horror  of  the  Infinite." 

V 


5633G1. 


FOREWORD 

Lazarus  is  a  story  which  depicts  the  misery  of  knowing  the 
Unknowable. 

In  The  Oentleman  from  San  Francisco  —  Ivan  Bunin 
demonstrates  the  poverty  of  wealth  and  the  impotence  of  power. 
This  story  has  been  called  the  best  work  of  fiction  produced  in 
Russia  during  the  last  decade. 

The  petty  seriousness  of  the  life  of  the  modern  Babylon, 
the  deference  paid  by  all  people  to  bald  heads  and  patent  leather 
shoes  and  well-filled  pockets,  and  the  utter  disregard  for  human 
feelings,  are  pictured  with  the  pen  of  one  who  pities  rather 
than  scorns  the  frailties  of  the  earth.  The  author  stands  aside, 
letting  the  world  rush  by  like  a  hurdy  gurdy,  each  gentleman 
from  San  Francisco  or  Boston  or  Berlin  or  Hong  Kong  sitting 
on  his  hobby  horse,  while  the  head  waiter  Luigi  clownishly 
mocks  their  antics  and  nudges  Death  in  the  ribs. 

The  Gentleman  from  San  Francisco  shows  the  wide  gulf 
that  yawns  between  our  estimate  of  our  own  worth  and  our  actual 
worth.  "I  need  the  whole  wide  world  for  my  amusement!" 
cries  the  man  of  wealth.  ' '  Yes,  and  here  it  is, "  answered  Death, 
handing  him  a  coffin.  And  as  a  further  humiliation,  those  who 
were  most  anxious  to  serve  this  man  of  wealth  in  life  are  the 
first  to  shove  the  coffin  into  the  ground. 

The  two  stories  in  this  book  will  arouse  thought.  They  will 
be  severely  criticized  by  those  who  hate  thought  and  as  an  ex- 
cuse for  their  superficial  shallowness  condemn  all  Russian  liter- 
ature, for  Russian  literature  is  nothing  if  not  thought-provoking. 
I  do  hope,  however,  that  nobody  will  be  found  quite  so  devoid 
of  a  sense  of  humor  as  an  admirable  college  dean  and  a  sweet 
old  lady  the  former  of  whom  wrote  to  me  that  Chekhov's  Nine 
Humorous  Tales  was  immoral,  and  the  latter  of  whom  insisted 
that  Lazarus  was  ungodly,  inasmuch  as  Christ  would  never 
have  raised  a  man  from  the  dead  for  the  purpose  of  teaching  us 
so  sad  a  lesson  about  the  grave. 

H.  T.  S. 
vi 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

Foreword v 

Lazarus 9 

The  Gentleman  from  San  Francisco      .        .        .      -^2 


vu 


Lazarus 

By  Leonid  Andreyev 
translated   by  abraham   yarmolinsky 

I 

WHEN  Lazarus  left  the  grave,  where,  for  three  days  and 
three  nights  he  had  been  under  the  enigmatical  sway 
of  death,  and  returned  alive  to  his  dwelling,  for  a  long  time  no 
one  noticed  in  him  those  sinister  oddities,  which,  as  time  went 
on,  made  his  very  name  a  terror.  Gladdened  unspeakably  by  the 
sight  of  him  who  had  been  returned  to  life,  those  near  to  him 
carressed  him  unceasingly,  and  satiated  their  burning  desire 
to  serve  him,  in  solicitude  for  his  food  and  drink  and  garments. 
And  they  dressed  him  gorgeously,  in  bright  colors  of  hope  and 
laughter,  and  when,  like  to  a  bridegroom  in  his  bridal  vestures, 
he  sat  again  among  them  at  the  table,  and  again  ate  and  drank, 
they  wept,  overwhelmed  with  tenderness.  And  they  summoned 
the  neighbors  to  look  at  him  who  had  risen  miraculously  from 
the  dead.  ^  These  came  and  shared  the  serene  joy  of  the  hosts. 
Strangers  from  far-off  towns  and  hamlets  came  and  adored  the 
miracle  in  tempestuous  words.  Like  to  a  beehive  was  the  house 
of  Mary  and  Martha. 

Whatever  was  found  new  in  Lazarus'  face  and  gestures  was 
thought  to  be  some  trace  of  a  grave  illness  and  of  the  shocks  re- 
cently experienced.  Evidently,  the  destruction  wrought  by  death 
on  the  corpse  was  only  arrested  by  the  miraculous  power,  but  its 
effects  were  still  apparent;  and  what  death  had  succeeded  in 
doing  with  Lazarus'  face  and  body,  was  like  an  artist's  unfinished 
sketch  seen  under  thin  glass.  On  Lazarus'  temples,  under  his 
eyes,  and  in  the  hollows  of  his  cheeks,  lay  a  deep  and  cadaverous 
blueness ;  cadaverously  blue  also  were  his  long  fingers,  and  around 
his  fingernails,  grown  long  in  the  grave,  the  blue  had  become 

9 


10  LAZAEUS 

purple  and  dark.  On  his  lips  the  skin,  swollen  in  the  grave,  had 
burst  in  places,  and  thin,  reddish  cracks  were  formed,  shining 
as  though  covered  with  transparent  mica.  And  he  had  grown 
stout.  His  body,  puffed  up  in  the  grave,  retained  its  monstrous 
size  and  showed  those  frightful  swellings,  in  which  one  sensed 
the  presence  of  the  rank  liquid  of  decomposition.  But  the  heavy 
corpse-like  odor  which  penetrated  Lazarus'  graveclothes  and,  it 
seemed,  his  very  body,  soon  entirely  disappeared,  the  blue  spots 
on  his  face  and  hands  grew  paler,  and  the  reddish  cracks  closed 
up,  although  they  never  disappeared  altogether.  That  is  how 
Lazarus  looked  when  he  appeared  before  people,  in  his  second 
life,  but  his  face  looked  natural  to  those  who  had  seen  him  in 
the  cofSn. 

In  addition  to  the  changes  in  his  appearance,  Lazarus'  tem- 
per seemed  to  have  undergone  a  transformation,  but  this  circum- 
stance startled  no  one  and  attracted  no  attention.  Before  his 
death  Lazarus  had  always  been  cheerful  and  carefree,  fond  of 
laughter  and  a  merry  joke.  It  was  because  of  this  brightness 
and  cheerfulness,  with  not  a  touch  of  malice  and  darkness,  that 
the  Master  had  grown  so  fond  of  him.  But  now  Lazarus  had 
grown  grave  and  taciturn,  he  never  jested,  himself,  nor  res- 
ponded with  laughter  to  other  people's  jokes;  and  the  words 
which  he  uttered,  very  infrequently,  were  the  plainest,  most  or- 
dinary and  necessary  words,  as  deprived  of  depth  and  signifi- 
cance, as  those  sounds  with  which  animals  express  pain  and 
pleasure,  thirst  and  hunger.  They  were  the  words  that  one  can 
say  all  one 's  life,  and  yet  they  give  no  indication  of  what  pains 
and  gladdens  the  depths  of  the  soul. 

Thus,  with  the  face  of  a  corpse  which  for  three  days  had 
been  under  the  heavy  sway  of  death,  dark  and  taciturn,  already 
appallingly  transformed,  but  still  unrecognized  by  any  one  in 
his  new  self,  he  was  sitting  at  the  feasting  table,  among  friends 
and  relatives,  and  his  gorgeous  nuptial  garments  glittered  with 
yellow  gold  and  bloody  scarlet.    Broad  waves  of  jubilation,  now 


LAZARUS  11 

soft,  now  tempestuously-sonorous  surged  around  him;  warm 
glances  of  love  were  reaching  out  for  his  face,  still  cold  with  the 
coldness  of  the  grave;  and  a  friend's  warm  palm  caressed  his 
blue,  heavy  hand.  And  music  played :  the  tympanum  and  the 
pipe,  the  cithara  and  the  harp.  It  was  as  though  bees  hummed, 
grasshoppers  chirped  and  birds  warbled  over  the  happy  house 
of  Mary  and  Martha. 

II 

One  of  the  guests  uncautiously  lifted  the  veil.  By  a 
thoughtless  word  he  broke  the  serene  charm  and  uncovered  the 
truth  in  all  its  naked  ugliness.  Ere  the  thought  formed  itself 
in  his  mind,  his  lips  uttered  with  a  smile : 

"Why  dost  thou  not  tell  us  what  happened  yonder?" 

And  all  grew  silent,  startled  by  the  question.  It  was  as  if 
it  occurred  to  them  only  now  that  for  three  days  Lazarus  had 
been  dead,  and  they  looked  at  him,  anxiously  awaiting  his 
answer.     But  Lazarus  kept  silence. 

"Thou  dost  not  wish  to  tell  us," — wondered  the  man,  "is  it 
so  terrible  yonder?" 

And  again  his  thought  came  after  his  words.  Had  it  been 
otherwise,  he  would  not  have  asked  this  question,  which  at  that 
very  moment  oppressed  his  heart  with  its  insufferable  horror. 
Uneasiness  seized  all  present,  and  with  a  feeling  of  heavy  weari- 
ness they  awaited  Lazarus'  words,  but  he  was  silent,  sternly  and 
coldly,  and  his  eyes  were  lowered.  And  as  if  for  the  first  time, 
they  noticed  the  frightful  blueness  of  his  face  and  his  repulsive 
obesity.  On  the  table,  as  though  forgotten  by  Lazarus,  rested 
his  bluish-purple  wrist,  and  to  this  all  eyes  turned,  as  if  it  were 
from  it  that  the  awaited  answer  was  to  come.  The  musicians 
were  still  playing,  but  now  the  silence  reached  them  too,  and 
even  as  water  extinguishes  scattered  embers,  so  were  their  mer- 
ry tunes  extinguished  in  the  silence.    The  pipe  grew  silent ;  the 


12  LAZAEUS 

voices  of  tlie  sonorous  tympanimi  and  the  murmuring  harp  died 
away ;  and  as  if  the  strings  had  burst,  the  cithara  answered  with 
a  tremulous,  broken  note.    Silence. 

' '  Thou  dost  not  wish  to  say  ? ' '  repeated  the  guest,  unable  to 
check  his  chattering  tongue.  But  the  stillness  remained  unbrok- 
en, and  the  bluish-purple  hand  rested  motionless.  And  then  he 
stirred  slightly  and  everyone  felt  relieved.  He  lifted  up  his 
eyes,  and,  lo!  straightway  embracing  everything  in  one  heavy 
glance,  fraught  with  weariness  and  horror,  he  looked  at  them, — 
Lazarus  who  had  arisen  from  the  dead. 

It  was  the  third  day  since  Lazarus  had  left  the  grave.  Ever 
since  then  many  had  experienced  the  pernicious  power  of  his  eye, 
but  neither  those  who  were  crushed  by  it  forever,  nor  those  who 
found  the  strength  to  resist  in  it  the  primordial  sources  of  life, — 
which  is  as  mysterious  as  death, — never  could  they  explain  the 
horror  which  lay  motionless  in  the  depth  of  his  black  pupils. 
Lazarus  looked  calmly  and  simply  with  no  desire  to  conceal  any- 
thing, but  also  with  no  intention  to  say  anything;  he  looked 
coldly,  as  he  who  is  infinitely  indifferent  to  those  alive.  Many 
carefree  people  came  close  to  him  without  noticing  him,  and  only 
later  did  they  learn  with  astonishment  and  fear  who  that  calm 
stout  man  was,  that  walked  slowly  by,  almost  touching  them  with 
his  gorgeous  and  dazzling  garments.  The  sun  did  not  cease  shin- 
ing, when  he  was  looking,  nor  did  the  fountain  hush  its  murmur, 
and  the  sky  overhead  remained  cloudless  and  blue.  But  the  man 
Tinder  the  spell  of  his  enigmatical  look  heard  no  more  the  foun- 
tain and  saw  not  the  sky  overhead.  Sometimes,  he  wept  bitterly, 
sometimes  he  tore  his  hair  and  in  frenzy  called  for  help ;  but  more 
often  it  came  to  pass  that  apathetically  and  quietly  he  began  to 
die,  and  so  he  languished  many  years,  before  everybody's  very 
eyes,  wasted  away,  colorless,  flabby,  dull,  like  a  tree,  silently 
drying  up  in  a  stony  soil.  And  of  those  who  gazed  at  him,  the 
ones  who  wept  madly,  sometimes  felt  again  the  stir  of  life;  the 
others  never. 


LAZARUS  13 

*'So  thou  dost  not  wish  to  tell  us  what  thou  hast  seen  yon- 
der?" repeated  the  man.  But  now  his  voice  was  impassive  and 
dull,  and  deadly  gray  weariness  showed  in  Lazarus'  eyes.  And 
deadly,  gray  weariness  covered  like  dust  all  the  faces,  and  with 
dull  amazement  the  guests  stared  at  each  other  and  did  not  under- 
stand wherefore  they  had  gathered  here  and  sat  at  the  rich  table. 
The  talk  ceased.  They  thought  it  was  time  to  go  home,  but 
could  not  overcome  the  flaccid  lazy  weariness,  which  glued  their 
muscles,  and  they  kept  on  sitting  there,  yet  apart  and  torn  away 
from  each  other,  like  pale  fires  scattered  over  a  dark  field. 

But  the  musicians  were  paid  to  play  and  again  they  took  to 
their  instruments,  and  again  tunes  full  of  studied  mirth  and 
studied  sorrow  began  to  flow  and  to  rise.  They  unfolded  the 
customary  melody,  but  the  guests  hearkened  in  dull  amazement. 
Already  they  knew  not  wherefore  is  it  necessary,  and  why  is  it 
well,  that  people  should  pluck  strings,  inflate  their  cheeks,  blow 
in  thin  pipes  and  produce  a  bizarre,  many- voiced  noise. 

"What  bad  music," — said  someone. 

The  musicians  took  offense  and  left.  Following  them,  the 
guests  left  one  after  another,  for  night  was  already  come.  And 
when  placid  darkness  encircled  them  and  they  began  to  breathe 
with  more  ease,  suddenly  Lazarus'  image  loomed  up  before  each 
one  in  formidable  radiance:  the  blue  face  of  a  corpse,  grave- 
clothes  gorgeous  and  resplendent,  a  cold  look,  in  the  depths  of 
which  lay  motionless  an  unknown  horror.  As  though  petrified, 
they  were  standing  far  apart,  and  darkness  enveloped  them,  but 
in  the  darkness  blazed  brighter  and  brighter  the  super-natural 
vision  of  him  who  for  three  days  had  been  under  the  enigmatical 
sway  of  death.  For  three  days  had  he  been  dead :  thrice  had  the 
sun  risen  and  set,  but  he  had  been  dead;  children  had  played, 
streams  murmured  over  pebbles,  the  wayfarer  had  lifted  up  hot 
dust  in  the  highroad, — but  he  had  been  dead.  And  now  he  is 
again  among  them, — touches  them, — looks  at  them, — looks  at 
them !  and  through  the  black  discs  of  his  pupils,  as  through  dark- 
ened glass,  stares  the  unknowable  Yonder. 


14  LAZARUS 


III 


No  one  was  taking  care  of  Lazarus,  for  no  friends,  no  rela- 
tives were  left  to  him,  and  the  great  desert,  which  encircled  the 
holy  city,  came  near  the  very  threshold  of  his  dwelling.  And  the 
desert  entered  his  house,  and  stretched  on  his  couch,  like  a  wife, 
and  extinguished  the  fires.  No  one  was  taking  care  of  Lazarus. 
One  after  the  other,  his  sisters — Mary  and  Martha — forsook 
him.  For  a  long  while  Martha  was  loath  to  abandon  him,  for 
she  knew  not  who  would  feed  him  and  pity  him,  she  wept  and 
prayed.  But  one  night,  when  the  wind  was  roaming  in  the  des- 
ert and  with  a  hissing  sound  the  cypresses  were  bending  over 
the  roof,  she  dressed  noiselessly  and  secretly  left  the  house. 
Lazarus  probably  heard  the  door  slam;  it  banged  against  the 
side-post  under  the  gusts  of  the  desert  wind,  but  he  did  not  rise 
to  go  out  and  to  look  at  her  that  was  abandoning  him.  All  the 
night  long  the  cypresses  hissed  over  his  head  and  plaintively 
thumped  the  door,  letting  in  the  cold,  greedy  desert. 

Like  a  leper  he  was  shunned  by  everyone,  and  it  was  pro- 
posed to  tie  a  bell  to  his  neck,  as  is  done  with  lepers,  to  warn 
people  against  sudden  meetings.  But  someone  remarked,  grow- 
ing frightfully  pale,  that  it  would  be  too  horrible  if  by  night  the 
moaning  of  Lazarus'  bell  were  suddenly  heard  under  the 
windows, — and  so  the  project  was  abandoned. 

And  since  he  did  not  take  care  of  himself,  he  would  proba- 
bly have  starved  to  death,  had  not  the  neighbors  brought  him 
food  in  fear  of  something  that  they  sensed  but  vaguely.  The  food 
was  brought  to  him  by  children;  they  were  not  afraid  of  Laza-, 
rus,  nor  did  they  mock  him  with  naive  cruelty,  as  children  are 
wont  to  do  with  the  wretched  and  miserable.  They  were  indiffer- 
ent to  him,  and  Lazarus  answered  them  with  the  same  coldness : 
he  had  no  desire  to  caress  the  black  little  curls,  and  to  look  into 
their  innocent  shining  eyes.  Given  to  Time  and  to  the  Desert,  his 
house  was  crumbling  down,  and  long  since  had  his  famishing 


LAZARUS  15 

lowing  goats  wandered  away  to  the  neighboring  pastures.  And 
his  bridal  garments  became  threadbare.  Ever  since  that  happy- 
day,  when  the  musicians  played,  he  had  worn  them  unaware  of 
the  difference  of  the  new  and  the  worn.  The  bright  colors  grew 
dull  and  faded ;  vicious  dogs  and  the  sharp  thorn  of  the  Desert 
turned  the  tender  fabric  into  rags. 

By  day,  when  the  merciless  sun  slew  all  things  alive,  and 
even  scorpions  sought  shelter  under  stones  and  writhed  there  in 
a  mad  desire  to  sting,  he  sat  motionless  under  the  sunrays,  his 
blue  face  and  the  uncouth,  bushy  beard  lifted  up,  bathing  in 
the  fiery  flood. 

When  people  still  talked  to  him,  he  was  once  asked : 

"Poor  Lazarus,  does  it  please  thee  to  sit  thus  and  to  stare 
at  the  sun  ? ' ' 

And  he  had  answered : 

"Yes,  it  does." 

So  strong,  it  seemed,  was  the  cold  of  his  three-days'  grave, 
so  deep  the  darkness,  that  there  was  no  heat  on  earth  to  warm 
Lazarus,  nor  a  splendor  that  could  brighten  the  darkness  of  his 
eyes.  That  is  what  came  to  the  mind  of  those  who  spoke  to 
Lazarus,  and  with  a  sigh  they  left  him. 

And  when  the  scarlet,  flattened  globe  would  lower,  Lazarus 
would  set  out  for  the  desert  and  walk  straight  toward  the  sun, 
as  though  striving  to  reach  it.  He  always  walked  straight  to- 
ward the  sun  and  those  who  tried  to  follow  him  and  to  spy 
upon  what  he  was  doing  at  night  in  the  desert,  retained  in  their 
memory  the  black  silhouette  of  a  tall  stout  man  against  the  red 
background  of  an  enormous  flattened  disc.  Night  pursued 
them  with  her  horrors,  and  so  they  did  not  learn  of  Lazarus' 
doings  in  the  desert,  but  the  vision  of  the  black  on  red  was  for- 
ever branded  on  their  brain.  Just  as  a  beast  with  a  splinter  in 
its  eye  furiously  rubs  its  muzzle  with  its  paws,  so  they  too  fool- 
ishly rubbed  their  eyes,  but  what  Lazarus  had  given  was  in- 
delible, and  Death  alone  could  efface  it. 


16  LAZARUS 

But  there  were  people  who  lived  far  away,  who  never  saw 
Lazarus  and  knew  of  him  only  by  report.  With  daring  curiosity, 
which  is  stronger  than  fear  and  feeds  upon  it,  with  hidden 
mockery,  they  would  come  to  Lazarus  who  was  sitting  in  the  sun 
and  enter  into  conversation  with  him.  By  this  time  Lazarus '  ap- 
pearance had  changed  for  the  better  and  was  not  so  terrible. 
The  first  minute  they  snapped  their  fingers  and  thought  of  how 
stupid  the  inhabitants  of  the  holy  city  were ;  but  when  the  short 
talk  was  over  and  they  started  homeward,  their  looks  were  such 
that  the  inhabitants  of  the  holy  city  recognized  them  at  once 
and  said: 

"Look,  there  is  one  more  fool  on  whom  Lazarus  has  set  his 
eye," — and  they  shook  their  heads  regretfully,  and  lifted  up 
their  arms. 

There  came  brave,  intrepid  warriors,  with  tinkling  weapons ; 
happy  youths  came  with  laughter  and  song;  busy  tradesmen, 
jingling  their  money,  ran  in  for  a  moment,  and  haughty  priests 
leaned  their  crosiers  against  Lazarus'  door,  and  they  were  all 
strangely  changed,  as  they  came  back.  The  same  terrible  shadow 
swooped  down  upon  their  souls  and  gave  a  new  appearance  to 
the  old  familiar  world. 

Those  who  still  had  the  desire  to  speak,  expressed  their  feel- 
ings thus: 

"All  things  tangible  and  visible  grew  hoUow,  light  and 
transparent, — similar  to  lightsome  shadows  in  the  darkness  of 
night ; 

"for,  that  great  darkness,  which  holds  the  whole  cosmos, 
was  dispersed  neither  by  the  sun  nor  by  the  moon  and  the  stars, 
but  like  an  immense  black  shroud  enveloped  the  earth  and,  like  a 
mother,  embraced  it ; 

"it  penetrated  all  the  bodies,  iron  and  stone, — and  the  par- 
ticles of  the  bodies,  having  lost  their  ties,  grew  lonely;  and  it 
penetrated  into  the  depth  of  the  particles,  and  the  particles  of 
particles  became  lonely ; 


LAZARUS  17 

"for  that  great  void,  which  encircles  the  cosmos,  was  not 
filled  by  things  visible :  neither  by  the  sun,  nor  by  the  moon  and 
the  stars,  but  reigned  unrestrained,  penetrating  everywhere, 
severing  body  from  body,  particle  from  particle ; 

"in  the  void  hollow  trees  spread  hollow  roots,  threatening  a 
fantastic  fall ;  temples,  palaces  and  horses  loomed  up,  and  they 
were  hollow;  and  in  the  void  men  moved  about  restlessly,  but 
they  were  light  and  hollow  like  shadows; 

"for,  Time  was  no  more,  and  the  beginning  of  all  things 
came  near  their  end:  the  building  was  still  being  built,  and 
builders  were  still  hammering  away,  and  its  ruins  were  already 
seen  and  the  void  in  its  place ;  the  man  was  still  being  born,  but 
already  funeral  candles  were  burning  at  his  head,  and  now  they 
were  extinguished,  and  there  was  the  void  in  place  of  the  man 
and  of  the  funeral  candles. 

"and  wrapped  by  void  and  darkness  the  man  in  despair 
trembled  in  the  face  of  the  Horror  of  the  Infinite." 

Thus  spake  the  men  who  had  still  a  desire  to  speak.  But, 
surely,  much  more  could  have  told  those  who  wished  not  to  speak, 
and  died  in  silence, 

IV 

At  that  time  there  lived  in  Eome  a  renowned  sculptor.  In 
clay,  marble  and  bronze  he  wrought  bodies  of  gods  and  men,  and 
such  was  their  beauty,  that  people  called  them  immortal.  But  he 
himself  was  discontented  and  asserted  that  there  was  something 
even  more  beautiful,  that  he  could  not  embody  either  in  marble 
or  in  bronze.  "I  have  not  yet  gathered  the  glimmers  of  the 
moon,  nor  hd,ve  I  my  fill  of  sunshine, ' '  he  was  wont  to  say,  ' '  and 
there  is  no  soul  in  my  marble,  no  life  in  my  beautiful  bronze." 
And  when  on  moonlight  nights  he  slowly  walked  along  the  road, 
crossing  the  black  shadows  of  cypresses,  his  white  tunic  glitter- 
ing in  the  moonshine,  those  who  met  him  would  laugh  in  a 
friendly  way  and  say : 


18  LAZARUS 

"Art  thou  going  to  gather  moonshine,  Aurelius?  Why 
then  didst  thou  not  fetch  baskets?" 

And  he  would  answer,  laughing  and  pointing  to  his  eyes : 

"Here  are  the  baskets  wherein  I  gather  the  sheen  of  the 
moon  and  the  glimmer  of  the  sun." 

And  so  it  was :  the  moon  glimmered  in  his  eyes  and  the  sun 
sparkled  therein.  But  he  could  not  translate  them  into  marble 
and  therein  lay  the  serene  tragedy  of  his  life. 

He  was  descended  from  an  ancient  patrician  race,  had  a 
good  wife  and  children,  and  suffered  from  no  want. 

When  the  obscure  rumor  about  Lazarus  reached  him,  he  con- 
sulted his  wife  and  friends  and  undertook  the  far  journey  to 
Judea  to  see  him  who  had  miraculously  risen  from  the  dead.  He 
was  somewhat  weary  in  those  days  and  he  hoped  that  the  road 
would  sharpen  his  blunted  senses.  What  was  said  of  Lazarus 
did  not  frighten  him:  he  had  pondered  much  over  Death,  did 
not  like  it,  but  he  disliked  also  those  who  confused  it  with  life. 

"In    this    life, — life    and    beauty; 
beyond, — Death,   the  enigmatical" — 

thought  he,  and  there  is  no  better  thing  for  a  man  to  do  than  to 
delight  in  life  and  in  the  beauty  of  all  things  living.  He  had 
even  a  vain  glorious  desire  to  convince  Lazarus  of  the  truth  of 
his  own  view  and  restore  his  soul  to  life,  as  his  body  had  been 
restored.  This  seemed  so  much  easier  because  the  rumors,  shy 
and  strange,  did  not  render  the  whole  truth  about  Lazarus  and 
but  vaguely  warned  against  something  frightful. 

Lazarus  had  just  risen  from  the  stone  in  order  to  follow  the 
sun  which  was  setting  in  the  desert,  when  a  rich  Roman  at- 
tended by  an  armed  slave,  approached  him  and  addressed  him 
in  a  sonorous  tone  of  voice : 

"Lazarus!" 

And  Lazarus  beheld  a  superb  face,  lit  with  glory,  and  ar- 
rayed in  fine  clothes,  and  precious  stones  sparkling  in  the  sun. 


LAZARUS  19 

The  red  light  lent  to  the  Roman 's  face  and  head  the  appearance 
of  gleaming  bronze  —  that  also  Lazarus  noticed.  He  resumed 
obediently  his  place  and  lowered  his  weary  eyes. 

*'Yes,  thou  art  ugly,  my  poor  Lazarus," — quietly  said  the 
Roman,  playing  with  his  golden  chain;  ''thou  art  even  horrible, 
my  poor  friend;  and  Death  was  not  lazy  that  day  when  thou 
didst  fall  so  heedlessly  into  his  hands.  But  thou  art  stout,  and, 
as  the  great  Caesar  used  to  say,  fat  people  are  not  ill-tempered ; 
to  tell  the  truth,  I  don't  understand  why  men  fear  thee.  Per- 
mit me  to  spend  the  night  in  thy  house ;  the  hour  is  late,  and  I 
have  no  shelter." 

Never  had  anyone  asked  Lazarus'  hospitality. 

''I  have  no  bed,"  said  he. 

"I  am  somewhat  of  a  soldier  and  I  can  sleep  sitting,"  the 
Roman  answered.    ''We  shall  build  a  fire." 

"I  have  no  fire." 

"Then  we  shall  have  our  talk  in  the  darkness,  like  two 
friends.    I  think,  thou  wilt  find  a  bottle  of  wine." 

"I  have  no  wine." 

The  Roman  laughed. 

"Now  I  see  why  thou  art  so  somber  and  dislikest  thy  sec- 
ond life.  No  wine !  Why,  then  we  shall  do  without  it :  there  are 
words  that  make  the  head  go  round  better  than  the  Falernian." 

By  a  sign  he  dismissed  the  slave,  and  they  remained  all 
alone.  And  again  the  sculptor  started  speaking,  but  it  was  as 
if,  together  with  the  setting  sun,  life  had  left  his  words;  and 
they  grew  pale  and  hollow,  as  if  they  staggered  on  unsteady 
feet,  as  if  they  slipped  and  fell  down,  drunk  with  the  heavy 
lees  of  weariness  and  despair.  And  black  chasms  grew  up  be- 
tween the  words  —  like  far-off  hints  of  the  great  void  and  the 
great  darkness. 

"Now  I  am  thy  guest,  and  thou  wilt  not  be  unkind  to  me, 
Lazarus!" — said  he.  "Hospitality  is  the  duty  even  of  those  who 
for  three  days  were  dead.  Three  days,  I  was  told,  thou  didst  rest 


20  LAZAEUS 

in  the  grave.  There  it  must  be  cold  .  .  .  and  that  is  whence 
comes  thy  ill  habit  of  going  without  fire  and  wine.  As  to  me,  I 
like  fire;  it  grows  dark  here  so  rapidly.  .  .  .  The  lines  of  thy 
eyebrows  and  forehead  are  quite,  quite  interesting :  they  are  like 
ruins  of  strange  palaces,  buried  in  ashes  after  an  earthquake. 
But  why  dost  thou  wear  such  ugly  and  queer  garments  ?  I  have 
seen  bridegrooms  in  thy  country,  and  they  wear  such  clothes  — 
are  they  not  funny  —  and  terrible.  .  .  .  But  art  thou  a  bride- 
groom ? ' ' 

The  sun  had  already  disappeared,  a  monstrous  black  shadow 
came  running  from  the  east  —  it  was  as  if  gigantic  bare  feet 
began  rumbling  on  the  sand,  and  the  wind  sent  a  cold  wave  along 
the  backbone. 

''In  the  darkness  thou  seemest  still  larger,  Lazarus,  as  if 
thou  hast  grown  stouter  in  these  moments.  Dost  thou  feed  on 
darkness,  Lazarus  ?  I  would  fain  have  a  little  fire  —  at  least  a 
little  fire,  a  little  fire.  I  feel  somewhat  chilly,  your  nights  are  so 
barbarously  cold.  .  .  .  Were  it  not  so  dark,  I  should  say  that 
thou  wert  looking  at  me,  Lazarus.  Yes,  it  seems  to  me,  thou  art 
looking.  .  .  .  Why,  thou  art  looking  at  me,  I  feel  it, — but  there 
thou  art  smiling." 

Night  came,  and  fiUed  the  air  with  heavy  blackness. 

"How  well  it  will  be,  when  the  sun  will  rise  to-morrow 
anew,  ...  I  am  a  great  sculptor,  thou  knowest ;  that  is  how  my 
friends  call  me".  I  create.  Yes,  that  is  the  word  .  .  .  but  I  need 
daylight.  I  give  life  to  the  cold  marble,  I  melt  sonorous  bronze 
in  fire,  in  bright  hot  fire.  .  .  .  Why  didst  thou  touch  me  with 
thy  hand?" 

"Come" — said  Lazarus — "Thou  art  my  guest." 

And  they  went  to  the  house.  And  a  long  night  enveloped 
the  earth. 

The  slave,  seeing  that  his  master  did  not  come,  went  to  seek 
him,  when  the  sun  was  already  high  in  the  sky.  And  he  beheld 
his  master  side  by  side  with  Lazarus:  in  profound  silence  were 


LAZARUS  21 

they  sitting  right  under  the  dazzling  and  scorching  sunrays  and 
looking  upward.    The  slave  began  to  weep  and  cried  out : 

"My  master,  what  has  befallen  thee,  master?" 

The  very  same  day  the  sculptor  left  for  Rome.  On  the  way 
Aurelius  was  pensive  and  taciturn,  staring  attentively  at  every- 
thing—  the  men,  the  ship,  the  sea,  as  though  trying  to  retain 
something.  On  the  high  sea  a  storm  burst  upon  them,  and  all 
through  it  Aurelius  stayed  on  the  deck  and  eagerly  scanned  the 
seas  looming  near  and  sinking  with  a  thud. 

At  home  his  friends  were  frightened  at  the  change  which  had 
taken  place  in  Aurelius,  but  he  calmed  them,  saying  meaningly : 

' '  I  have  found  it. ' ' 

And  without  changing  the  dusty  clothes  he  wore  on  his 
journey,  he  fell  to  work,  and  the  marble  obediently  resounded 
under  his  sonorous  hammer.  Long  and  eagerly  worked  he,  ad- 
mitting no  one,  until  one  morning  he  announced  that  the  work 
was  ready  and  ordered  his  friends  to  be  summoned,  severe  critics 
and  connoisseurs  of  art.  And  to  meet  them  he  put  on  bright  and 
gorgeous  garments,  that  glittered  with  yellow  gold  —  and' — 
scarlet  byssus. 

"Here  is  my  work,"  said  he  thoughtfully. 

His  friends  glanced  and  a  shadow  of  profound  sorrow  cov- 
ered their  faces.  It  was  something  monstrous,  deprived  of  all 
the  lines  and  shapes  familiar  to  the  eye,  but  not  without  a  hint 
at  some  new,  strange  image. 

On  a  thin,  crooked  twig,  or  rather  on  an  ugly  likeness  of  a 
twig  rested  askew  a  blind,  ugly,  shapeless,  outspread  mass  of 
something  utterly  and  inconceivably  distorted,  a  mad  heap  of 
wild  and  bizarre  fragments,  all  feebly  and  vainly  striving  to  part 
from  one  another.  And,  as  if  by  chance,  beneath  one  of  the 
wildly-rent  salients  a  butterfly  was  chiseled  with  divine  skill,  all 
airy  loveliness,  delicacy  and  beauty,  with  transparent  wings, 
which  seemed  to  tremble  with  an  impotent  desire  to  take  flight. 


22  LAZARUS 


( ( ' 


'Wherefore  this  wonderful  butterfly,  Aurelius?"  said 
somebody  falteringly. 

"I  know  not" — was  the  sculptor's  answer. 

But  it  was  necessary  to  tell  the  truth,  and  one  of  his 
friends  who  loved  him  best  said  firmly : 

"This  is  ugly,  my  poor  friend.  It  must  be  destroyed.  Give 
me  the  hammer." 

And  with  two  strokes  he  broke  the  monstrous  man  into 
pieces,  leaving  only  the  infinitely  delicate  butterfly  untouched. 

From  that  time  on  Aurelius  created  nothing.  With  pro- 
found indifference  he  looked  at  marble  and  bronze,  and  on  his 
former  divine  works,  where  everlasting  beauty  rested.  With  the 
purpose  of  arousing  his  former  fervent  passion  for  work  and 
awakening  his  deadened  soul,  his  friends  took  him  to  see  other 
artists'  beautiful  works, — but  he  remained  indifferent  as  be- 
fore, and  the  smile  did  not  warm  up  his  tightened  lips.  And 
only  after  listening  to  lengthy  talks  about  beauty,  he  would 
retort  wearily  and  indolently : 

"But  all  this  is  a  lie." 

And  by  the  day,  when  the  sun  was  shining,  he  went  into  his 
magnificent,  skillfully-built  garden  and  having  found  a  place 
without  shadow,  he  exposed  his  bare  head  to  the  glare  and 
heat.  Red  and  white  butterflies  fluttered  around ;  from  the 
crooked  lips  of  a  drunken  satyr,  water  streamed  down  with  a 
splash  into  a  marble  cistern,  but  he  sat  motionless  and  silent, — 
like  a  pallid  reflection  of  him  who,  in  the  far-off  distance,  at 
the  very  gates  of  the  stony  desert,  sat  under  the  fiery  sun. 


And  now  it  came  to  pass  that  the  great,  deified  Augustus 
himself  summoned  Lazarus.  The  imperial  messengers  dressed 
him  gorgeously,  in  solemn  nuptial  clothes,  as  if  Time  had 
legalized  them,  and  he  was  to  remain  until  his  very  death  the 


LAZARUS  23 

bridegroom  of  an  unknown  bride.  It  was  as  though  an  old, 
rotting  coffin  had  been  gilt  and  furnished  with  new,  gay 
tassels.  And  men,  all  in  trim  and  bright  attire,  rode  after  him, 
as  if  in  bridal  procession  indeed,  and  those  foremost  trumpeted 
loudly,  bidding  people  to  clear  the  way  for  the  emperor's  mes- 
sengers. But  Lazarus'  way  was  deserted:  his  native  land 
cursed  the  hateful  name  of  him  who  had  miraculously  risen 
from  the  dead,  and  people  scattered  at  the  very  news  of  his 
appalling  approach.  The  solitary  voice  of  the  brass  trumpets 
sounded  in  the  motionless  air,  and  the  wilderness  alone  re- 
sponded with  its  languid  echo. 

Then  Lazarus  went  by  sea.  And  his  was  the  most  mag- 
nificently arrayed  and  the  most  mournful  ship  that  ever 
mirrored  itself  in  the  azure  waves  of  the  Mediterranean  Sea. 
Many  were  the  travelers  aboard,  but  like  a  tomb  was  the  ship, 
all  silence  and  stillness,  and  the  despairing  water  sobbed  at 
the  steep,  proudly  curved  prow.  All  alone  sat  Lazarus  ex- 
posing his  head  to  the  blaze  of  the  sun,  silently  listening  to  the 
murmur  and  splash  of  the  wavelets,  and  afar  seamen  and 
messengers  were  sitting,  a  vague  group  of  weary  shadows. 
Had  the  thunder  burst  and  the  wind  attacked  the  red  sails, 
the  ships  would  probably  have  perished,  for  none  of  those 
aboard  had  either  the  will  or  the  strength  to  struggle  for  life. 
With  a  supreme  effort  some  mariners  would  reach  the  board 
and  eagerly  scan  the  blue,  transparent  deep,  hoping  to  see  a 
naiad's  pink  shoulder  flash  in  the  hollow  of  an  azure  wave, 
or  a  drunken  gay  centaur  dash  along  and  in  frenzy  splash  the 
wave  with  his  hoof.  But  the  sea  was  like  a  wilderness,  and 
the  deep  was  dumb  and  deserted. 

With  utter  indifference  did  Lazarus  set  his  feet  on  the 
street  of  the  eternal  city.  As  though  all  her  wealth,  all  the 
magnificence  of  her  palaces  built  by  giants,  all  the  resplend- 
ence, beauty  and  music  of  her  refined  life  were  but  the 
echo  of  the  wind  in  the  wilderness,  the  reflection  of  the  desert 


24  LAZAEUS 

quicksand.  Chariots  were  dashing,  and  along  the  streets  were 
moving  crowds  of  strong,  fair,  proud  builders  of  the  eternal 
city  and  haughty  participants  in  her  life;  a  song  sounded; 
fountains  and  women  laughed  a  pearly  laughter;  drunken 
philosophers  harangued,  and  the  sober  listened  to  them  with 
a  smile;  hoofs  struck  the  stone  pavements.  And  surrounded 
by  cheerful  noise,  a  stout,  heavy  man  was  moving,  a  cold  spot 
of  silence  and  despair,  and  on  his  way  he  sowed  disgust,  anger, 
and  vague,  gnawing  weariness.  Who  dares  to  be  sad  in  Rome, 
wondered  indignantly  the  citizens,  and  frowned.  In  two  days 
the  entire  city  already  knew  all  about  him  who  had  miracu- 
lously risen  from  the  dead,  and  shunned  him  shyly. 

But  some  daring  people  there  were,  who  wanted  to  test 
their  strength,  and  Lazarus  obeyed  their  imprudent  summons. 
Kept  busy  by  state  affairs,  the  emperor  constantly  delayed  the 
reception,  and  seven  days  did  he  who  had  risen  from  the  dead 
go  about  visiting  others. 

And  Lazarus  came  to  a  cheerful  Epicurean,  and  the  host 
met  him  with  laughter  on  his  lips : 

"Drink,  Lazarus,  drink!" — shouted  he.  "Would  not  Au- 
gustus laugh  to  see  thee  drunk!" 

And  half-naked  drunken  women  laughed,  and  rose  petals 
fell  on  Lazarus'  blue  hands.  But  then  the  Epicurean  looked 
into  Lazarus'  eyes,  and  his  gaiety  ended  forever.  Drunkard 
remained  he  for  the  rest  of  his  life;  never  did  he  drink,  yet 
forever  was  he  drunk.  But  instead  of  the  gay  revery  which 
wine  brings  with  it,  frightful  dreams  began  to  haunt  him,  the 
sole  food  of  his  stricken  spirit.  Day  and  night  he  lived  in  the 
poisonous  vapors  of  his  nightmares,  and  death  itself  was  not 
more  frightful  than  her  raving,  monstrous  forerunners. 

And  Lazarus  came  to  a  youth  and  his  beloved,  who  loved 
each  other  and  were  most  beautiful  in  their  passion.  Proudly 
and  strongly  embracing  his  love,  the  youth  said  with  serene 
regret : 


LAZARUS  25 

"Look  at  us,  Lazarus,  and  share  our  joy.  Is  there  any- 
thing stronger  than  love?" 

And  Lazarus  looked.  And  for  the  rest  of  their  life  they 
kept  on  loving  each  other,  but  their  passion  grew  gloomy  and 
joyless,  like  those  funeral  cypresses  whose  roots  feed  on  the 
decay  of  the  graves  and  whose  black  summits  in  a  still  even- 
ing hour  seek  in  vain  to  reach  the  sky.  Thrown  by  the  un- 
known forces  of  life  into  each  other's  embraces,  they  mingled 
tears  with  kisses,  voluptuous  pleasures  with  pain,  and  they 
felt  themselves  doubly  slaves,  obedient  slaves  to  life,  and 
patient  servants  of  the  silent  Nothingness.  Ever  united,  ever 
severed,  they  blazed  like  sparks  and  like  sparks  lost  them- 
selves in  the  boundless  Dark.  --—-^-^ 

And  Lazarus  came  to  a  haughty  sage,  and  the  sage  said  to 
him: 

"I  know  all  the  horrors  thou  canst  reveal  to  me.  Is  there 
anything  thou  canst  frighten  me  with  ? ' ' 

But  before  long  the  sage  felt  that  the  knowledge  of  horror 
was  far  from  being  the  horror  itself,  and  that  the  vision  of 
Death,  was  not  Death.  And  he  felt  that  wisdom  and  folly  are 
equal  before  the  face  of  Infinity,  for  Infinity  knows  them  not. 
And  it  vanished,  the  dividing-line  between  knowledge  and 
ignorance,  truth  and  falsehood,  top  and  bottom,  and  the  shape- 
less thought  hung  suspended  in  the  void.  Then  the  sage 
clutched  his  gray  head  and  cried  out  frantically: 

"I  cannot  think!    I  cannot  think!" 

Thus  under  the  indifferent  glance  for  him,  who  miracu- 
lously had  risen  from  the  dead,  perished  everything  that 
asserts  life,  its  significance  and  joys.  And  it  was  suggested 
that  it  was  dangerous  to  let  him  see  the  emperor,  that  it  was 
better  to  kill  him  and,  having  buried  him  secretly,  to  tell  the 
emperor  that  he  had  disappeared  no  one  knew  whither.  Al- 
ready swords  were  being  whetted  and  youths  devoted  to  the 
public   welfare    prepared    for    the    murder,    when    Augustus 


26  LAZARUS 

ordered  Lazarus  to  be  brought  before  him  next  morning,  thus 
destroying  the  cruel  plans. 

If  there  was  no  way  of  getting  rid  of  Lazarus,  at  least  it 
was  possible  to  soften  the  terrible  impression  his  face  pro- 
duced. With  this  in  view,  skillful  painters,  barbers  and  artists 
were  summoned,  and  all  night  long  they  were  busy  over 
Lazarus'  head.  They  cropped  his  beard,  curled  it  and  gave 
it  a  tidy,  agreeable  appearance.  By  means  of  paints  they  con- 
cealed the  corpse-like  blueness  of  his  hands  and  face.  Re- 
pulsive were  the  wrinkles  of  suffering  that  furrowed  his  old 
face,  and  they  were  puttied,  painted  and  smoothed ;  then,  over 
the  smooth  background,  wrinkles  of  good-tempered  laughter 
and  pleasant,  carefree  mirth  were  skillfully  painted  with  fine 
brushes. 

Lazarus  submitted  indifferently  to  everything  that  was 
done  to  him.  Soon  he  was  turned  into  a  becomingly  stout, 
venerable  old  man,  into  a  quiet  and  kind  grandfather  of 
numerous  offspring.  It  seemed  that  the  smile,  with  which 
only  a  while  ago  he  was  spinning  funny  yarns,  was  still  linger- 
ing on  his  lips,  and  that  in  the  corner  of  his  eye  serene  tender- 
ness was  hiding,  the  companion  of  old  age.  But  people  did 
not  dare  change  his  nuptial  garments,  and  they  would  not 
change  his  eyes,  two  dark  and  frightful  glasses  through  which 
looked  at  men,  the  unknowable  Yonder. 

VI 

Lazarus  was  not  moved  by  the  magnificence  of  the  im- 
perial palace.  It  was  as  though  he  saw  no  difference  between 
the  crumbling  house,  closely  pressed  by  the  desert,  and  the 
stone  palace,  solid  and  fair,  and  indifferently  he  passed  into  it. 
And  the  hard  marble  of  the  floors  under  his  feet  grew  similar 
to  the  quicksand  of  the  desert,  and  the  multitude  of  richly 
dressed  and  haughty  men  became  like   void   air   under  his 


LAZARUS  27 

glance.  No  one  looked  into  his  face,  as  Lazarus  passed  by, 
fearing  to  fall  under  the  appalling  influence  of  his  eyesj  but 
when  the  sound  of  his  heavy  footsteps  had  sufficiently  died 
down,  the  courtiers  raised  their  heads  and  with  fearful  curi- 
osity examined  the  figure  of  a  stout,  tall,  slightly  bent  old 
man,  who  was  slowly  penetrating  into  the  very  heart  of  the 
imperial  palace.  Were  Death  itself  passing,  it  would  be  faced 
with  no  greater  fear:  for  until  then  the  dead  alone  knew 
Death,  and  those  alive  knew  Life  only — and  there  was  no 
bridge  between  them.  But  this  extraordinary  man,  although 
alive,  knew  Death,  and  enigmatical,  appalling,  was  his  cursed 
knowledge.  "Woe,"  people  thought,  "he  will  take  the  life 
of  our  great,  deified  Augustus,"  and  they  sent  curses  after 
Lazarus,  who  meanwhile  kept  on  advancing  into  the  interior 
of  the  palace. 

Already  did  the  emperor  know  who  Lazarus  was,  and  pre- 
pared to  meet  him.  But  the  monarch  was  a  brave  man,  and 
felt  his  own  tremendous,  unconquerable  power,  and  in  his  fatal 
duel  with  him  who  had  miraculously  risen  from  the  dead  he 
wanted  not  to  invoke  human  help.  And  so  he  met  Lazarus 
face  to  face : 

"Lift  not  thine  eyes  upon  me,  Lazarus,"  he  ordered.  "I 
heard  thy  face  is  like  that  of  Medusa  and  turns  into  stone 
whomsoever  thou  lookest  at.  Now,  I  wish  to  see  thee  and  to 
have  a  talk  with  thee,  before  I  turn  into  stone, ' ' — added  he 
in  a  tone  of  kingly  jesting,  not  devoid  of  fear. 

Coming  close  to  him,  he  carefully  examined  Lazarus'  face 
and  his  strange  festal  garments.  And  although  he  had  a  keen 
eye,  he  was  deceived  by  his  appearance. 

"So.  Thou  dost  not  appear  terrible,  my  venerable  old 
man.  But  the  worse  for  us,  if  horror  assumes  such  a  respect- 
able and  pleasant  air.    Now,  let  us  have  a  talk." 

Augustus  sat,  and  questioning  Lazarus  with  his  eye  as 
much  as  with  words,  started  the  conversation: 


28  LAZARUS 

"Why  didst  thou  not  greet  me  as  thou  enteredst?" 

Lazarus  answered  indifferent: 

*'I  knew  not  it  was  necessary." 

"Art  thou  a  Christian?" 

"No." 

Augustus  approvingly  shook  his  head. 

"That  is  good.  I  do  not  like  Christians.  They  shake  the 
tree  of  life  before  it  is  covered  with  fruit,  and  disperse  its 
odorous  bloom  to  the  winds.    But  who  art  thou?" 

With  a  visible  effort  Lazarus  answered : 

"I  was  dead." 

"I  had  heard  that.    But  who  art  thou  now?" 

Lazarus  was  silent,  but  at  last  repeated  in  a  tone  of  weary 
apathy : 

"I  was  dead." 

"Listen  to  me,  stranger,"  said  the  emperor,  distinctly  and 
severely  giving  utterance  to  the  thought  that  had  come  to  him 
at  the  beginning,  ' '  my  realm  is  the  realm  of  Life,  my  people  are 
of  the  living,  not  of  the  dead.  Thou  art  here  one  too  many.  I 
know  not  who  thou  art  and  what  thou  sawest  there;  but,  if 
thou  liest,  I  hate  thy  lies,  and  if  thou  tellst  the  truth,  I  hate  thy 
truth.  In  my  bosom  I  feel  the  throb  of  life;  I  feel  strength 
in  my  arm,  and  my  proud  thoughts,  like  eagles,  pierce  the 
space.  And  yonder  in  the  shelter  of  my  rule,  under  the  pro- 
tection of  laws  created  by  me,  people  live  and  toil  and  rejoice. 
Dost  thou  hear  the  battle-cry,  the  challenge  men  throw  into  the 
face  of  the  future  ? ' ' 

Augustus,  as  in  prayer,  stretched  forth  his  arms  and  ex- 
claimed solemnly: 

"Be  blessed,  0  great  and  divine  Life!" 

Lazarus  was  silent,  and  with  growing  sternness  the  emperor 
went  on : 

"Thou  art  not  wanted  here,  miserable  remnant,  snatched 
from  under  Death's  teeth,  thou  inspirest  weariness  and  disgust 


LAZAEUS  29 

with  life;  like  a  caterpillar  in  the  fields,  thou  gloatest  on  the 
rich  ear  of  joy  and  belchest  out  the  drivel  of  despair  and  sor- 
row. Thy  truth  is  like  a  rusty  sword  in  the  hands  of  a  nightly 
murderer, — and  as  a  murderer  thou  shalt  be  executed.  But 
before  that,  let  me  look  into  thine  eyes.  Perchance,  only 
cowards  are  afraid  of  them,  but  in  the  brave  they  awake  the 
thirst  for  strife  and  victory;  then  thou  shalt  be  rewarded,  not 
executed.  .  .  .  Now,  look  at  me,  Lazarus." 

At  first  it  appeared  to  the  deified  Augustus  that  a  friend 
was  looking  at  him, — so  soft,  so  tenderly-fascinating  was 
Lazarus'  glance.  It  promised  not  horror,  but  sweet  rest,  and 
the  Infinite  seemed  to  him  a  tender  mistress,  a  compassionate 
sister,  a  mother.  But  stronger  and  stronger  grew  its  embraces, 
and  already  the  mouth,  greedy  of  hissing  kisses,  interfered 
with  the  monarch's  breathing,  and  already  to  the  surface  of 
the  soft  tissues  of  the  body  came  the  iron  of  the  bones  and 
tightened  its  merciless  circle, — and  unknown  fangs,  blunt  and 
cold,  touched  his  heart  and  sank  into  it  with  slow  indolence. 

"It  pains,"  said  the  deified  Augustus,  growing  pale.  "But 
look  at  me,  Lazarus,  look." 

It  was  as  though  some  heavy  gates,  ever  closed,  were 
slowly  moving  apart,  and  through  the  growing  interstice  the 
appalling  horror  of  the  Infinite  poured  in  slowly  and  steadily. 
Like  two  shadows  there  entered  the  shoreless  void  and  the 
unfathomable  darkness;  they  extinguished  the  sun,  ravished 
the  earth  from  under  the  feet,  and  the  roof  from  over  the  head. 
No  more  did  the  frozen  heart  ache. 

"Look,  look,  Lazarus,"  ordered  Augustus  tottering. 

Time  stood  still,  and  the  beginning  of  each  thing  grew 
frightfully  near  to  its  end.  Augustus'  throne  just  erected, 
crumbled  down,  and  the  void  was  already  in  the  place  of  the 
throne  and  of  Augustus.  Noiselessly  did  Rome  crumble  down, 
and  a  new  city  stood  on  its  site  and  it  too  was  swallowed  by 
the  void.  Like  fantastic  giants,  cities,  states  and  countries 
fell  down  and  vanished  in  the  void  darkness — and  with  utter- 


30  LAZARUS 

most  indifference  did  the  insatiable  black  womb  of  the  Infinite 
swallow  them. 

"Halt!" — ordered  the  emperor. 

In  his  voice  sounded  already  a  note  of  indifference,  his 
hands  dropped  in  languor,  and  in  the  vain  struggle  with  the 
onrushing  darkness  his  fieiy  eyes  now  blazed  up,  and  now 
went  out.  "^ 

"My  life  thou  hast  taken  from  me,  Lazarus," — said  he  in 
a  spiritless,  feeble  voice. 

And  these  words  of  hopelessness  saved  him.  He  remem- 
bered his  people,  whose  shield  he  was  destined  to  be,  and  keen 
salutary  pain  pierced  his  deadened  heart.  "They  are  doomed 
to  death,"  he  thought  wearily,  "Serene  shadows  in  the  dark- 
ness of  the  Infinite,"  thought  he,  and  horror  grew  upon  him. 
"Frail  vessels  with  living  seething  blood,  with  a  heart  that 
knows  sorrow  and  also  great  joy,"  said  he  in  his  heart,  and 
tenderness  pervaded  it. 

Thus  pondering  and  oscillating  between  the  poles  of  Life 
and  Death,  he  slowly  came  back  to  life,  to  find  in  its  suffering 
and  in  its  joys  a  shield  against  the  darkness  of  the  void  and 
the  horror  of  the  Infinite. 

"No,  thou  hast  not  murdered  me,  Lazarus,"  said  he  firmly, 
"but  I  will  take  thy  life.    Be  gone." 

That  evening  the  deified  Augustu^  partook  of  his  meats 
and  drinks  with  particular  joy.  Now  and  then  his  lifted  hand 
remained  suspended  in  the  air,  and  a  dull  glimmer  replaced 
the  bright  sheen  of  his  fiery  eye.  It  was  the  cold  wave  of 
Horror  that  surged  at  his  feet.  Defeated,  but  not  undone,  ever 
awaiting  its  hour,  that  Horror  stood  at  the  emperor's  bedside, 
like  a  black  shadow  all  through  his  life ;  it  swayed  his  nights, 
but  yielded  the  days  to  the  sorrows  and  joys  of  life. 

The  following  day,  the  hangman  with  a  hot  iron  burnt  out 
Lazarus'  eyes.  Then  he  was  sent  home.  The  deified  Augustus 
dared  not  kill  him. 


LAZARUS  .     31 

Lazarus  returned  to  the  desert,  and  the  wilderness  met 
him  with  hissing  gusts  of  wind  and  the  heat  of  the  blazing 
sun.  Again  he  was  sitting  on  a  stone,  his  rough,  bushy  beard 
lifted  up ;  and  the  two  black  holes  in  place  of  his  eyes  looked 
at  the  sky  with  an  expression  of  dull  terror.  Afar-off  the  holy 
city  stirred  noisily  and  restlessly,  but  around  him  everything 
was  deserted  and  dumb.  No  one  approached  the  place  where 
lived  he  who  had  miraculously  risen  from  the  dead,  and  long 
since  his  neighbors  had  forsaken  their  houses.  Driven  by  the 
hot  iron  into  the  depth  of  his  skull,  his  cursed  knowledge  hid 
there  in  an  ambush.  As  though  leaping  out  from  an  ambush 
it  plunged  its  thousand  invisible  eyes  into  the  man, — and  no 
one  dared  look  at  Lazarus. 

And  in  the  evening,  when  the  sun,  reddening  and  growing 
wider,  would  come  nearer  and  nearer  the  western  horizon,  the 
blind  Lazarus  would  slowly  follow  it.  He  would  stumble 
against  stones  and  fall,  stout  and  weak  as  he  was ;  would  rise 
heavily  to  his  feet  and  walk  on  again;  and  on  the  red  screen 
of  the  sunset  his  black  body  and  outspread  hands  would  form 
a  monstrous  likeness  of  a  cross. 

And  it  came  to  pass  that  once  he  went  out  and  did  not 
come  back.  Thus  seemingly  ended  the  second  life  of  him  who 
for  three  days  had  been  under  the  enigmatical  sway  of  death, 
and  rose  miraculously  from  the  dead. 


The  Gentleman  from  San  Francisco 

By  Ivan  Bunin 

**Alas,  alas,  that  great  city  Babylon,  that  mighty  city!" — 

— Revelation  of  St.  John. 

THE  Gentleman  from  San  Francisco — neither  at  Naples  nor 
on  Capri  could  any  one  recall  his  name: — with  his  wife  and 
daughter,  was  on  his  way  to  Europe,  where  he  intended  to  stay 
for  two  whole  years,  solely  for  the  pleasure  of  it. 

He  was  firmly  convinced  that  he  had  a  full  right  to  a  rest, 
enjoyment,  a  long  comfortable  trip,  and  what  not.  This  con- 
viction had  a  two-fold  reason:  first  he  was  rich,  and  second, 
despite  his  fifty-eight  years,  he  was  just  about  to  enter  the 
stream  of  life's  pleasures.  Until  now  he  had  not  really  lived, 
but  simply  existed,  to  be  sure — fairly  well,  yet  putting  off  his 
fondest  hopes  for  the  future.  He  toiled  'unweariedly — the  Chi- 
nese, whom  he  imported  by  thousands  for  his  works,  knew  full 
well  what  it  meant, — and  finally  he  saw  that  he  had  made  much, 
and  that  he  had  nearly  come  up  to  the  level  of  those  whom  he 
had  once  taken  as  a  model,  and  he  decided  to  catch  his  breath. 
The  class  of  people  to  which  he  belonged  was  in  the  habit  of 
beginning  its  enjoyment  of  life  with  a  trip  to  Europe,  India, 
Egypt.  He  made  up  his  mind  to  do  the  same.  Of  course,  it 
was  first  of  all  himself  that  he  desired  to  reward  for  the  years  of 
toil,  but  he  was  also  glad  for  his  wife  and  daughter 's  sake.  His 
wife  was  never  distinguished  by  any  extraordinary  impressiona- 
bility, but  then,  all  elderly  American  women  are  ardent  travelers. 
As  for  his  daughter,  a  girl  of  marriageable  age,  and  somewhat 
sickly, — travel  was  the  very  thing  she  needed.  Not  to  speak  of 
the  benefit  to  her  health,  do  not  happy  meetings  occur  during 

32 


THE   GENTLEMAN  FROM   SAN   FRANCISCO       33 

travels?  Abroad,  one  may  chance  to  sit  at  the  same  table 
with  a  prince,  or  examine  frescoes  side  by  side  with  a  multi- 
millionaire. 

The  itinerary  the  Gentleman  from  San  Francisco  planned 
out  was  an  extensive  one.  In  December  and  January  he  ex- 
pected to  relish  the  sun  of  southern  Italy,  monuments  of  anti- 
quity, the  tarantella,  serenades  of  wandering  minstrels,  and  that 
which  at  his  age  is  felt  most  keenly — the  love,  not  entirely  dis- 
interested though,  of  young  Neapolitan  girls.  The  Carnival  days 
he  planned  to  spend  at  Nice  and  Monte-Carlo,  which  at  that 
time  of  the  year  is  the  meeting-place  of  the  choicest  society, 
the  society  upon  which  depend  all  the  blessings  of  civilization: 
the  cut  of  dress  suits,  the  stability  of  thrones,  the  declaration  of 
wars,  the  prosperity  of  hotels.  Some  of  these  people  passionately 
give  themselves  over  to  automobile  and  boat  races,  others  to  rou- 
lette, others,  again,  busy  themselves  with  what  is  called  flirtation, 
and  others  shoot  pigeons,  which  soar  so  beautifully  from  the 
dove-cote,  hover  a  while  over  the  emerald  lawn,  on  the  back- 
ground of  the  forget-me-not  colored  sea,  and  then  suddenly  hit 
the  ground,  like  little  white  lumps.  Early  March  he  wanted  to 
devote  to  Florence,  and  at  Easter,  to  hear  the  Miserere  in  Paris. 
His  plans  also  included  Venice,  Paris,  buU-baiting  at  Seville, 
bathing  on  the  British  Islands,  also  Athens,  Constantinople, 
Palestine,  Egypt,  and  even  Japan,  of  course,  on  the  way  back.  .  . 
And  at  first  things  went  very  well  indeed. 

It  was  the  end  of  November,  and  all  the  way  to  Gibraltar 
the  ship  sailed  across  seas  which  were  either  clad  by  icy  dark- 
ness or  swept  by  storms  carrying  wet  snow.  But  there  were  no 
accidents,  and  the  vessel  did  not  even  roll.  The  passengers, — 
all  people  of  consequence — were  numerous,  and  the  steamer  the 
famous  "Atlantis,"  resembled  the  most  expensive  European 
hotel  with  all  improvements:  a  night  refreshment-bar,  Oriental 
baths,  even  a  newspaper  of  its  own.  The  manner  of  living  was 
a  most  aristocratic  one ;  passengers  rose  early,  awakened  by  the 


34   THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  SAN  FRANCISCO 

shrill  voice  of  a  bugle,  filling  the  corridors  at  the  gloomy  hour 
when  the  day  broke  slowly  and  sulkily  over  the  grayish-green 
watery  desert,  which  rolled  heavily  in  the  fog.  After  putting 
on  their  flannel  pajamas,  they  took  coffee,  chocolate,  cocoa;  they 
seated  themselves  in  marble  baths,  went  through  their  exer- 
cises, whetting  their  appetites  and  increasing  their  sense  of 
well-being,  dressed  for  the  day,  and  had  their  breakfast.  Till 
eleven  o  'clock  they  were  supposed  to  stroll  on  the  deck,  breath- 
ing in  the  chill  freshness  of  the  ocean,  or  they  played  table-ten- 
nis, or  other  games  which  arouse  the  appetite.  At  eleven 
o'clock  a  collation  was  served  consisting  of  sandwiches  and 
bouillon,  after  which  people  read  their  newspapers,  quietly 
waiting  for  luncheon,  which  was  more  nourishing  and  varied 
than  the  breakfast.  The  next  two  hours  were  given  to  rest ;  all 
the  decks  were  crowded  then  with  steamer  chairs,  on  which  the 
passengers,  wrapped  in  plaids,  lay  stretched,  dozing  lazily,  or 
watching  the  cloudy  sky  and  the  foamy-fringed  water  hillocks 
flashing  beyond  the  sides  of  the  vessel.  At  five  o'clock,  refreshed 
and  gay,  they  drank  strong,  fragrant  tea ;  at  seven  the  sound  of 
the  bugle  announced  a  dinner  of  nine  courses.  .  .  Then  the 
Gentleman  from  San  Francisco,  rubbing  his  hands  in  an  onrush 
of  vital  energy,  hastened  to  his  luxurious  state-room  to  dress. 
In  the  evening,  all  the  decks  of  the  "Atlantis"  yawned  in 
the  darkness,  shone  with  their  innumerable  fiery  eyes,  and  a 
multitude  of  servants  worked  with  increased  feverishness  in 
the  kitchens,  dish-washing  compartments,  and  wine-cellars.  The 
ocean,  which  heaved  about  the  sides  of  the  ship,  was  dreadful, 
but  no  one  thought  of  it.  All  had  faith  in  the  controlling  power 
of  the  captain,  a  red-headed  giant,  heavy  and  very  sleepy,  who, 
clad  in  a  uniform  with  broad  golden  stripes,  looked  like  a  huge 
idol,  and  but  rarely  emerged,  for  the  benefit  of  the  public,  from 
his  mysterious  retreat. .  On  the  fore-castle,  the  siren  gloomily 
roared  or  screeched  in  a  fit  of  mad  rage,  but  few  of  the  diners 
heard  the  siren :  its  hellish  voice  was  covered  by  the  sounds  of  an 


THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  SAN  FRANCISCO     35 

excellent  string  orchestra,  which  played  ceaselessly  and  exquis- 
itely in  a  vast  hall,  decorated  with  marble  and  spread  with  vel- 
vety carpets.  The  hall  was  flooded  with  torrents  of  light,  radi- 
ated by  crystal  lustres  and  gilt  chandeliers ;  it  was  filled  with  a 
throng  of  bejeweled  ladies  in  low-necked  dresses,  of  men  in  din- 
ner-coats, graceful  waiters,  and  deferential  maitres-d 'hotel. 
One  of  these, — who  accepted  wine  orders  exclusively — wore  a 
chain  on  his  neck  like  some  lord-mayor.  The  evening  dress, 
and  the  ideal  linen  made  the  Gentleman  from  San  Francisco 
look  very  young.  Dry-skinned,  of  average  height,  strongly, 
though  irregularly  built,  glossy  with  thorough  washing  and 
cleaning,  and  moderately  animated,  he  sat  in  the  golden  splen- 
dor of  this  palace.  Near  him  stood  a  bottle  of  amber-colored 
Johannisberg,  and  goblets  of  most  delicate  glass  and  of  varied 
sizes,  surmounted  by  a  frizzled  bunch  of  fresh  hyacinths. 
There  was  something  Mongolian  in  his  yellowish  face  with  its 
trimmed  silvery  moustache;  his  large  teeth  glimmered  with 
gold  fillings,  and  his  strong,  bald  head  had  a  dull  glow,  like  old 
ivory.  His  wife,  a  big,  broad  and  placid  woman,  was  dressed 
richly,  but  in  keeping  with  her  age.  Complicated,  but  light, 
transparent,  and  innocently  immodest  was  the  dress  of  his 
daughter,  tall  and  slender,  with  magnificent  hair  gracefully 
combed ;  her  breath  was  sweet  with  violet-scented  tablets,  and 
she  had  a  number  of  tiny  and  most  delicate  pink  dimples  near 
her  lips  and  between  her  slightly-powdered  shoulder  blades.  .  . 
The  dinner  lasted  two  whole  hours,  and  was  followed  by 
dances  in  the  dancing  hall,  while  the  men — the  Gentleman  from 
San  Francisco  among  them — made  their  way  to  the  refreshment 
bar,  where  negros  in  red  jackets  and  with  eye-balls  like  shelled 
hard-boiled  eggs,  waited  on  them.  There,  with  their  feet  on 
tables,  smoking  Havana  cigars,  and  drinking  themselves  purple 
in  the  face,  they  settled  the  destinies  of  nations  on  the  basis  of 
the  latest  political  and  stock-exchange  news.  Outside,  the  ocean 
tossed  up  black  mountains  with  a  thud ;  and  the  snowstorm  hissed 


36   THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  SAN  FRANCISCO 

furiously  in  the  rigging  grown  heavy  with  slush ;  the  ship  trem- 
bled in  every  limb,  struggling  with  the  storm  and  ploughing  with 
difficulty  the  shifting  and  seething  mountainous  masses  that  threw 
far  and  high  their  foaming  tails;  the  siren  groaned  in  agony, 
choked  by  storm  and  fog ;  the  watchmen  in  their  towers  froze  and 
almost  went  out  of  their  minds  under  the  superhuman  stress  of  at- 
tention. Like  the  gloomy  and  sultry  mass  of  the  inferno,  like  its 
last,  ninth  circle,  was  the  submersed  womb  of  the  steamer,  where 
monstrous  furnaces  yawned  with  red-hot  open  jaws,  and  emitted 
deep,  hooting  sounds,  and  where  the  stokers,  stripped  to  the 
waist,  and  purple  with  the  reflected  flames,  bathed  in  their  own 
dirty,  acid  sweat.  And  here,  in  the  refreshment-bar,  carefree 
men,  with  their  feet,  encased  in  dancing  shoes,  on  the  table, 
sipped  cognac  and  liqueurs,  swam  in  waves  of  spiced  smoke,  and 
exchanged  subtle  remarks,  while  in  the  dancing-hall  everything 
sparkled  and  radiated  light,  warmth  and  joy.  The  couples  now 
turned  around  in  a  waltz,  now  swayed  in  the  tango;  and  the 
music,  sweetly  shameless  and  sad,  persisted  in  its  ceaseless  en- 
treaties .  .  .  There  were  many  persons  of  note  in  this  magnificent 
crowd ;  an  ambassador,  a  dry,  modest  old  man ;  a  great  million- 
aire, shaved,  tall,  of  an  indefinite  age,  who,  in  his  old-fashioned 
dress-coat,  looked  like  a  prelate;  also  a  famous  Spanish  writer, 
and  an  international  belle,  already  slightly  faded  and  of  dubious 
morals.  There  was  also  among  them  a  loving  pair,  exquisite  and 
refined,  whom  everybody  watched  with  curiosity  and  who  did  not 
conceal  their  bliss;  he  danced  only  with  her,  sang — with  great 
skill — only  to  her  accompaniment,  and  they  were  so  charming,  so 
graceful.  The  captain  alone  knew  that  they  had  been  hired  by 
the  company  at  a  good  salary  to  play  at  love,  and  that  they  had 
been  sailing  now  on:  one,  now  on  another  steamer,  for  quite  a 
longtime.  ^.:Vi:7^W^'^' 

In  Gibraltar  everybody  was  gladdened  by  the  sun,  and  by 
the  weather  which  was  like  early  Spring.  A  new  passenger 
appeared  aboard  the  "Atlantis"  and  aroused  everybody's  in- 


THE  GENTLEMAN  FEOM  SAN  FRANCISCO   37 

terest.  It  was  the  crown-prince  of  an  Asiatic  state,  who  traveled 
incognito,  a  small  man,  very  nimble,  though  looking  as  if  made 
of  wood,  broad-faced,  narrow-eyed,  in  gold-rimmed  glasses, 
somewhat  disagreeable  because  of  his  long  black  moustache, 
which  was  sparse  like  that  of  a  corpse,  but  otherwise — charming, 
plain,  modest.  In  the  Mediterranean  the  breath  of  winter  was 
again  felt.  The  seas  were  heavy  and  motley  like  a  peacock's  tail 
and  the  waves  stirred  up  by  the  gay  gusts  of  the  tramontane, 
tossed  their  white  crests  under  a  sparkling  and  perfectly  clear 
sky.  Next  morning,  the  sky  grew  paler  and  the  skyline  misty. 
Land  was  near.  Then  Ischia  and  Capri  came  in  sight,  and  one 
could  descry,  through  an  opera-glass,  Naples,  looking  like  pieces 
of  sugar  strewn  at  the  foot  of  an  indistinct  dove-colored  mass, 
and  above  them,  a  snow-covered  chain  of  distant  mountains. 
The  decks  were  crowded,  many  ladies  and  gentlemen  put  on 
light  fur-coats;  Chinese  servants,  bandy-legged  youths — with 
pitch  black  braids  down  to  the  heels  and  with  girlish,  thick  eye- 
lashes,— always  quiet  and  speaking  in  a  whisper,  were  carrying 
to  the  foot  of  the  staircases,  plaid  wraps,  canes,  and  crocodile- 
leather  valises  and  hand-bags.  The  daughter  of  the  Gentleman 
from  San  Francisco  stood  near  the  prince,  who,  by  a  happy 
chance,  had  been  introduced  to  her  the  evening  before,  and 
feigned  to  be  looking  steadily  at  something  far-off,  which  he  was 
pointing  out  to  her,  while  he  was,  at  the  same  time,  explaining 
something,  saying  something  rapidly  and  quietly.  He  was  so 
small  that  he  looked  like  a  boy  among  other  men,  and  he  was 
Qot  handsome  at  all.  And  then  there  was  something  strange 
about  him;  his  glasses,  derby  and  coat  were  most  commonplace, 
but  there  was  something  horse-like  in  the  hair  of  his  sparse 
moustache,  and  the  thin,  tanned  skin  of  his  flat  face  looked  as 
though  it  were  somewhat  stretched  and  varnished.  But  the  girl 
listened  to  him,  and  so  great  was  her  excitement  that  she  could 
hardly  grasp  the  meaning  of  his  words,  her  heart  palpitated 
with  incomprehensible  rapture  and  with  pride  that  he  was  stand- 


38   THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  SAN  FRANCISCO 

ing  and  speaking  with  her  and  nobody  else.  Everything  about 
him  was  diiferent:  his  dry  hands,  his  clean  skin,  under  which 
flowed  ancient  kingly  blood,  even  his  light  shoes  and  his  Euro- 
pean dress,  plain,  but  singularly  tidy — everything  hid  an  inex- 
plicable fascination  and  engendered  thoughts  of  love.  And  the 
Gentleman  from  San  Francisco,  himself,  in  a  silk-hat,  gray 
leggings,  patent  leather  shoes,  kept  eyeing  the  famous  beauty 
who  was  standing  near  him,  a  tall,  stately  blonde,  with  eyes 
painted  according  to  the  latest  Parisian  fashion,  and  a  tiny, 
bent  peeled-off  pet-dog,  to  whom  she  addressed  herself.  And  the 
daughter,  in  a  kind  of  vague  perplexity,  tried  not  to  notice  him. 
Like  all  wealthy  Americans  he  was  very  liberal  when  trav- 
eling, and  believed  in  the  complete  sincerity  and  good-will  of 
those  who  so  painstakingly  fed  him,  served  him  day  and  night, 
anticipating  his  slightest  desire,  protected  him  from  dirt  and 
disturbance,  hauled  things  for  him,  hailed  carriers,  and  deliv- 
ered his  luggage  to  hotels.  So  it  was  everywhere,  and  it  had  to 
be  so  at  Naples.  Meanwhile,  Naples  grew  and  came  nearer.  The 
musicians,  with  their  shining  brass  instruments  had  already 
formed  a  group  on  the  deck,  and  all  of  a  sudden  deafened 
everybody  with  the  triumphant  sounds  of  a  ragtime  march.  The 
giant  captain,  in  his  full  uniform  appeared  on  the  bridge  and 
like  a  gracious  Pagan  idol,  waved  his  hands  to  the  passengers, — 
and  it  seemed  to  the  Gentleman  from  San  Francisco, — as  it  did 
to  all  the  rest, — that  for  him  alone  thundered  the  march,  so 
greatly  loved  by  proud  America,  and  that  him  alone  did  the 
captain  congratulate  on  the  safe  arrival.  And  when  the 
"Atlantis"  had  finally  entered  the  port  and  all  its  many-decked 
mass  leaned  against  the  quay,  and  the  gang-plank  began  to  rat- 
tle heavily, — what  a  crowd  of  porters,  with  their  assistants,  in 
caps  with  golden  galloons,  what  a  crowd  of  various  boys  and 
husky  ragamuffins  with  pads  of  colored  postal  cards  attacked 
the  Gentleman  from  San  Francisco,  offering  their  services !  With 
kindly  contempt  he  grinned  at  these  beggars,  and,  walking 


THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  SAN  FRANCISCO  39 

towards  the  automobile  of  the  hotel  where  the  prince  might 
stop,  muttered  between  his  teeth,  now  in  English,  now  in 
Italian — ' '  Go  away !  Via  ..." 

Immediately,  life  at  Naples  began  to  follow  a  set  routine. 
Early  in  the  morning  breakfast  was  served  in  the  gloomy  din- 
ing-room, swept  by  a  wet  draught  from  the  open  windows  look- 
ing upon  a  stony  garden,  while  outside  the  sky  was  cloudy  and 
cheerless,  and  a  crowd  of  guides  swarmed  at  the  door  of  the 
vestibule.  Then  came  the  first  smiles  of  the  warm  roseate  sun, 
and  from  the  high  suspended  balcony,  a  broad  vista  unfolded 
itself:  Vesuvius,  wrapped  to  its  base  in  radiant  morning  vap- 
ors ;  the  pearly  ripple,  touched  to  silver,  of  the  bay,  the  delicate 
outline  of  Capri  on  the  skyline;  tiny  asses  dragging  two- 
wheeled  buggies  along  the  soft,  sticky  embankment,  and  de- 
tachments of  little  soldiers  marching  somewhere  to  the  tune  of 
cheerful  and  defiant  music. 

Next  on  the  day's  program  was  a  slow  automobile  ride  along 
crowded,  narrow,  and  damp  corridors  of  streets,  between  high, 
many-windowed  buildings.  It  was  followed  by  visits  to  mu- 
seums, lifelessly  clean  and  lighted  evenly  and  pleasantly,  but  as 
though  with  the  dull  light  cast  by  snow ;  —  then  to  churches, 
cold,  smelling  of  wax,  always  alike :  a  majestic  entrance,  closed 
by  a  ponderous,  leather  curtain,  and  inside — a  vast  void,  silence, 
quiet  flames  of  seven-branched  candlesticks,  sending  forth  a  red 
glow  from  where  they  stood  at  the  farther  end,  on  the  bedecked 
altar, — a  lonely,  old  woman  lost  among  the  dark  wooden  benches, 
slippery  gravestones  under  the  feet,  and  somebody's  "Descent 
from  the  Cross,"  infallibly  famous.  At  one  o'clock — luncheon, 
on  the  mountain  of  San-Martius,  where  at  noon  the  choicest 
people  gathered,  and  where  the  daughter  of  the  Gentleman  from 
San  Francisco  once  almost  fainted  with  joy,  because  it  seemed  to 
her  that  she  saw  the  Prince  in  the  hall,  although  she  had  learned 
from  the  newspapers  that  he  had  temporarily  left  for  Rome.  At 
five  o'clock  it  was  customary  to  take  tea  at  the  hotel,  in  a  smart 


40   THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  SAN  FRANCISCO 

salon,  where  it  was  far  too  warm  because  of  the  carpets  and  the 
blazing  fireplaces ;  and  then  came  dinner-time — and  again  did  the 
mighty,  commanding  voice  of  the  gong  resound  throughout  the 
building,  again  did  silk  rustle  and  the  mirrors  reflect  files  of 
ladies  in  low-necked  dresses  ascending  the  staircases,  and  again 
the  splendid  palatial  dining  hall  opened  with  broad  hospitality, 
and  again  the  musicians'  jackets  formed  red  patches  on  the 
estrade,  and  the  black  figures  of  the  waiters  swarmed  around  the 
maitre-d 'hotel,  who,  with  extraordinary  skill,  poured  a  thick 
pink  soup  into  plates  ...  As  everywhere,  the  dinner  was  the 
crown  of  the  day.  People  dressed  for  it  as  for  a  wedding,  and 
so  abundant  was  it  in  food,  wines,  mineral  waters,  sweets  and 
fruits,  that  about  eleven  o'clock  in  the  evening  chamber-maids 
would  carry  to  all  the  rooms  hot-water  bags. 

That  year,  however,  December  did  not  happen  to  be  a  very- 
propitious  one.  The  doormen  were  abashed  when  people  spoke  to 
them  about  the  weather,  and  shrugged  their  shoulders  guiltily, 
mumbling  that  they  could  not  recollect  such  a  year,  although,  to 
tell  the  truth,  it  was  not  the  first  year  they  mumbled  those 
words,  usually  adding  that  "things  are  terrible  everywhere": 
that  unprecedented  showers  and  storms  had  broken  out  on  the 
Riviera,  that  it  was  snowing  in  Athens,  that  Aetna,  too,  was  all 
blocked  up  with  snow,  and  glowed  brightly  at  night,  and  that 
tourists  were  fleeing  from  Palermo  to  save  themselves  from  the 
cold  spell  .  .  . 

That  winter,  the  morning  sun  daily  deceived  Naples :  toward 
noon  the  sky  would  invariably  grow  gray,  and  a  light  rain  would 
begin  to  fall,  growing  thicker  and  duller.  Then  the  palms  at 
the  hotel-porch  glistened  disagreeably  like  wet  tin,  the  town 
appeared  exceptionally  dirty  and  congested,  the  museums  too 
monotonous,  the  cigars  of  the  drivers  in  their  rubber  raincoats, 
which  flattened  in  the  wind  like  wings,  intolerably  stinking,  and 
the  energetic  flapping  of  their  whips  over  their  thin-necked  nags 
— obviously  false.     The  shoes  of  the  signors,  who  cleaned  the 


THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  SAN  FRANCISCO   41 

street-car  tracks,  were  in  a  frightful  state,  the  women  who 
splashed  in  the  mud,  with  black  hair  unprotected  from  the  rain, 
were  ugly  and  short-legged,  and  the  humidity  mingled  with  the 
foul  smell  of  rotting  fish,  that  came  from  the  foaming  sea,  was 
simply  disheartening.  And  so,  early-morning  quarrels  began  to 
break  out  between  the  Gentleman  from  San  Francisco  and  his 
wife ;  and  their  daughter  now  grew  pale  and  suffered  from  head- 
aches, and  now  became  animated,  enthusiastic  over  everything, 
and  at  such  times  was  lovely  and  beautiful.  Beautiful  were  the 
tender,  complex  feelings  which  her  meeting  with  the  ungainly 
man  aroused  in  her, — the  man  in  whose  veins  flowed  unusual 
blood,  for,  after  all,  it  does  not  matter  what  in  particular  stirs 
up  a  maiden's  soul:  money,  or  fame,  or  nobility  of  birth  .  .  . 
Everybody  assured  the  tourists  that  it  was  quite  different  at 
Sorrento  and  on  Capri,  that  lemon-trees  were  blossoming  there, 
that  it  was  warmer  and  sunnier  there,  the  morals  purer,  and  the 
wine  less  adulterated.  And  the  family  from  San  Francisco  de- 
cided to  set  out  with  all  their  luggage  for  Capri.  They  planned 
to  settle  down  at  Sorrento,  but  first  to  visit  the  island,  tread  the 
stones  where  stood  Tiberius 's  palaces,  examine  the  fabulous 
wonders  of  the  Blue  Grotto,  and  listen  to  the  bagpipes  of 
Abruzzi,  who  roam  about  the  island  during  the  whole  month 
preceding  Christmas  and  sing  the  praises  of  the  Madona. 

On  the  day  of  departure — a  very  memorable  day  for  the 
family  from  San  Francisco — the  sun  did  not  appear  even  in 
the  morning.  A  heavy  winter  fog  covered  Vesuvius  down  to 
its  very  base  and  hung  like  a  gray  curtain  low  over  the  leaden 
surge  of  the  sea,  hiding  it  completely  at  a  distance  of  half  a 
mile.  Capri  was  completely  out  of  sight,  as  though  it  had 
never  existed  on  this  earth.  And  the  little  steamboat  which 
was  making  for  the  island  tossed  and  pitched  so  fiercely  that 
the  family  lay  prostrated  on  the  sofas  in  the  miserable  cabin 
of  the  little  steamer,  with  their  feet  wrapped  in  plaids  and 
their  eyes  shut  because  of  their  nausea.    The  older  lady  suf- 


42   THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  SAN  FRANCISCO 

fered,  as  she  thought,  most;  several  times  she  was  overcome 
with  sea-sickness,  and  it  seemed  to  her  then  she  was  dying,  but 
the  chambermaid,  who  repeatedly  brought  her  the  basin,  and 
who  for  many  years,  in  heat  and  in  cold,  had  been  tossing  on 
these  waves,  ever  on  the  alert,  ever  kindly  to  all, — the  cham- 
bermaid only  laughed.  The  lady's  daughter  was  frightfully 
pale  and  kept  a  slice  of  lemon  between  her  teeth.  Not  even 
the  hope  of  an  unexpected  meeting  with  the  prince  at  Sor- 
rento, where  he  planned  to  arrive  on  Christmas,  served  to  cheer 
her.  The  Gentleman  from  San  Francisco,  who  was  lying  on 
his  back,  dressed  in  a  large  overcoat  and  a  big  cap,  did  not 
loosen  his  jaws  throughout  the  voyage.  His  face  grew  dark, 
his  moustache  white,  and  his  head  ached  heavily;  for  the  last 
few  days,  because  of  the  bad  weather,  he  had  drunk  far  too 
much  in  the  evenings. 

And  the  rain  kept  on  beating  against  the  rattling  window 
panes,  and  water  dripped  down  from  them  on  the  sofas;  the 
howling  wind  attacked  the  masts,  and  sometimes,  aided  by  a 
heavy  sea,  it  laid  the  little  steamer  on  its  side,  and  then  some- 
thing below  rolled  about  with  a  rattle. 

While  the  steamer  was  anchored  at  Castellamare  and  Sor- 
rento, the  situation  was  more  cheerful ;  but  even  here  the  ship 
rolled  terribly,  and  the  coast  with  all  its  precipices,  gardens 
and  pines,  with  its  pink  and  white  hotels  and  hazy  mountains 
clad  in  curling  verdure,  flew  up  and  down  as  if  it  were  on 
swings.  The  rowboats  hit  against  the  sides  of  the  steamer,  the 
sailors  and  the  deck  passengers  shouted  at  the  top  of  their 
voices,  and  somewhere  a  baby  screamed  as  if  it  were  being 
crushed  to  pieces.  A  wet  wind  blew  through  the  door,  and  from 
a  wavering  barge  flying  the  flag  of  the  Hotel  Royal,  an  urchin 
kept  on  unwearyingly  shouting  "Kgoyal-al!  Hotel  Kgoyal-al! 
..."  inviting  tourists.  And  the  Gentleman  from  San  Fran- 
cisco felt  like  the  old  man  that  he  was, — and  it  was  with 
weariness    and    animosity    that    he    thought    of    all    these 


THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  SAN  FRANCISCO     43 

"Royals,"  "Splendids,"  ** Excelsiors,"  and  of  all  those  greedy- 
bugs,  reeking  with  garlic,  who  are  called  Italians.  Once,  dur- 
ing a  stop,  having  opened  his  eyes  and  half-risen  from  the 
sofa,  he  noticed  in  the  shadow  of  the  rock  beach  a  heap  of 
stone  huts,  miserable,  mildewed  through  and  through,  huddled 
close  by  the  water,  near  boats,  rags,  tin-boxes,  and  brown  fish- 
ing nets, — and  as  he  remembered  that  this  was  the  very  Italy 
he  had  come  to  enjoy,  he  felt  a  great  despair  .  .  .  Finally,  in 
twilight,  the  black  mass  of  the  island  began  to  grow  nearer,  as 
though  burrowed  through  at  the  base  by  red  fires,  the  wind 
grew  softer,  warmer,  more  fragrant;  from  the  dock-lanterns 
huge  golden  serpents  flowed  down  the  tame  waves  which  un- 
dulated like  black  oil  .  .  .  Then,  suddenly,  the  anchor  rumbled 
and  fell  with  a  splash  into  the  water,  the  fierce  yells  of  the 
boatman  filled  the  air,  —  and  at  once  everyone 's  heart  grew  easy. 
The  electric  lights  in  the  cabin  grew  more  brilliant,  and  there 
came  a  desire  to  eat,  drink,  smoke,  move  .  .  .  Ten  minutes  later 
the  family  from  San  Francisco  found  themselves  in  a  large 
ferry-boat;  fifteen  minutes  later  they  trod  the  stones  of  the 
quay,  and  then  seated  themselves  in  a  small  lighted  car,  which, 
with  a  buzz,  started  to  ascend  the  slope,  while  vineyard  stakes, 
half-ruined  stone  fences,  and  wet,  crooked  lemon-trees,  in  spots 
shielded  by  straw  sheds,  with  their  glimmering  orange-colored 
fruit  and  thick  glossy  foliage,  were  sliding  down  past  the  open 
ear  windows.  .  .  After  rain,  the  earth  smells  sweetly  in  Italy, 
and  each  of  her  islands  has  a  fragrance  of  its  own. 

The  Island  of  Capri  was  dark  and  damp  on  that  evening. 
But  for  a  while  it  grew  animated  and  let  up,  in  spots,  as  always 
in  the  hour  of  the  steamer's  arrival.  On  the  top  of  the  hill,  at 
the  station  of  the  funiculaire,  there  stood  already  the  crowd  of 
those  whose  duty  it  was  to  receive  properly  the  Gentleman 
from  San  Francisco.  The  rest  of  the  tourists  hardly  deserved 
any  attention.  There  were  a  few  Russians,  who  had  settled  on 
Capri,  untidy,  absent-minded  people,  absorbed  in  their  bookish 


44       THE   GENTLEMAN  FROM  SAN  FRANCISCO 

thoughts,  spectacled,  bearded,  with  the  collars  of  their  cloth 
overcoats  raised.  There  was  also  a  company  of  long-legged, 
long-necked,  round-headed  German  youths  in  Tyrolean  cos- 
tume, and  with  linen  bags  on  their  backs,  who  need  no  one's 
services,  are  everywhere  at  home,  and  are  by  no  means  liberal 
in  their  expenses.  The  Gentleman  from  San  Francisco,  who 
quietly  kept  aloof  from  both  the  Russians  and  the  Germans, 
was  noticed  at  once.  He  and  his  ladies  were  hurriedly  helped 
from  the  car,  a  man  ran  before  them  to  show  them  the  way,  and 
they  were  again  surrounded  by  boys  and  those  thickset  Ca- 
prean  peasant  women,  who  carry  on  their  heads  the  trunks  and 
valises  of  wealthy  travelers.  Their  tiny,  wooden,  foot-stools 
rapped  against  the  pavement  of  the  small  square,  which  looked 
almost  like  an  opera  square,  and  over  which  an  electric  lan- 
tern swung  in  the  damp  wind;  the  gang  of  urchins  whistled 
like  birds  and  turned  somersaults,  and  as  the  Gentleman  from 
San  Francisco  passed  among  them,  it  all  looked  like  a  stage 
scene;  he  went  first  under  some  kind  of  mediaeval  archway, 
beneath  houses  huddled  close  together,  and  then  along  a  steep 
echoing  lane  which  led  to  the  hotel  entrance,  flooded  with 
light.  At  the  left,  a  palm  tree  raised  its  tuft  above  the  flat 
roofs,  and  higher  up,  blue  stars  burned  in  the  black  sky.  And 
again  things  looked  as  though  it  was  in  honor  of  the  guests 
from  San  Francisco  that  the  stony  damp  little  town  had  awak- 
ened on  its  rocky  island  in  the  Mediterranean,  that  it  was  they 
who  had  made  the  owner  of  the  hotel  so  happy  and  beaming, 
and  that  the  Chinese  gong,  which  had  sounded  the  call  to  din- 
ner through  all  the  floors  as  soon  as  they  entered  the  lobby, 
had  been  waiting  only  for  them. 

The  owner,  an  elegant  young  man,  who  met  the  guests 
with  a  polite  and  exquisite  bow,  for  a  moment  startled  the 
Gentleman  from  San  Francisco.  Having  caught  sight  of  him, 
the  Gentleman  from  San  Francisco  suddenly  recollected  that 
on  the  previous  night,  among  other  confused  images  which 


THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  SAN  FRANCISCO   45 

disturbed  his  sleep,  he  had  seen  this  very  man.  His  vision  re- 
sembled the  hotel  keeper  to  a  dot,  had  the  same  head,  the  same 
hair,  shining  and  scrupulously  combed,  and  wore  the  same 
frock-coat  with  rounded  skirts.  Amazed,  he  almost  stopped 
for  a  while.  But  as  there  was  not  a  mustard-seed  of  what  is 
called  mysticism  in  his  heart,  his  surprise  subsided  at  once ;  in 
passing  the  corridor  of  the  hotel  he  jestingly  told  his  wife  and 
daughter  about  this  strange  coincidence  of  dream  and  reality. 
His  daughter  alone  glanced  at  him  with  alarm,  longing  sud- 
denly compressed  her  heart,  and  such  a  strong  feeling  of  soli- 
tude on  this  strange,  dark  island  seized  her  that  she  almost 
began  to  cry.  But,  as  usual,  she  said  nothing  about  her  feel- 
ings to  her  father. 

A  person  of  high  dignity.  Rex  XVH,  who  had  spent  three 
entire  weeks  on  Capri,  had  just  left  the  island,  and  the  guests 
from  San  Francisco  were  given  the  apartments  he  had  occu- 
pied. At  their  disposal  was  put  the  most  handsome  and  skill- 
ful chambermaid,  a  Belgian,  with  a  figure  rendered  slim  and 
firm  by  her  corset,  and  with  a  starched  cap,  shaped  like  a 
small,  indented  crown ;  and  they  had  the  privilege  of  being 
served  by  the  most  well-appearing  and  portly  footman,  a 
black,  fiery-eyed  Sicilian,  and  by  the  quickest  waiter,  the  small, 
stout  Luigi,  who  was  a  fiend  at  cracking  jokes  and  had  chang- 
ed many  places  in  his  life.  Then  the  maitre-d 'hotel,  a  French- 
man, gently  rapped  at  the  door  of  the  American  gentleman's 
room.  He  came  to  ask  whether  the  gentleman  and  the  ladies 
would  dine,  and  in  case  they  would,  which  he  did  not  doubt, 
to  report  that  there  was  to  be  had  that  day  lobsters,  roast 
beef,  asparagus,  pheasants,  etc.,  etc. 

The  floor  was  still  rocking  under  the  Gentleman  from  San 
Francisco — so  sea-sick  had  the  wretched  Italian  steamer  made 
him-^yet,  he  slowly,  though  awkwardly,  shut  the  window  which 
had  banged  when  the  maitre-d 'hotel  entered,  and  which  let  in 
the  smell  of  the  distant  kitchen  and  wet  flowers  in  the  garden, 


46        THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  SAN  FRANCISCO 

and  answered  with  slow  distinctness,  that  they  would  dine,  that 
their  table  must  be  placed  farther  away  from  the  door,  in  the 
depth  of  the  hall,  that  they  would  have  local  wine  and  cham- 
pagne, moderately  dry  and  but  slightly  cooled.  The  maitre- 
d 'hotel  approved  the  words  of  the  guest  in  various  intonations, 
which  all  meant,  however,  only  one  thing ;  there  is  and  can  be 
no  doubt  that  the  desires  of  the  Gentleman  from  San  Francisco 
are  right,  and  that  everything  would  be  carried  out,  in  exact 
conformity  with  his  words.  At  last  he  inclined  his  head  and 
asked  delicately: 

''Is  that  all,  sir?" 

And  having  received  in  reply  a  slow  "Yes,"  he  added  that 
to-day  they  were  going  to  have  the  tarantella  danced  in  the 
vestibule  by  Carmella  and  Giuseppe,  known  to  all  Italy  and  to 
"the  entire  world  of  tourists." 

"I  saw  her  on  post-card  pictures,"  said  the  Gentleman 
from  San  Francisco  in  a  tone  of  voice  which  expressed  nothing. 
"And  this  Giuseppe,  is  he  her  husband?" 

"Her  cousin,  sir,"  answered  the  maitre-d 'hotel. 

The  Gentleman  from  San  Francisco  tarried  a  little,  evi- 
dently musing  on  something,  but  said  nothing,  then  dismissed 
him  with  a  nod  of  his  head. 

Then  he  started  making  preparations,  as  though  for  a  wed- 
ding :  he  turned  on  all  the  electric  lamps,  and  filled  the  mirrors 
with  reflections  of  light  and  the  sheen  of  furniture,  and  opened 
trunks ;  he  began  to  shave  and  to  wash  himself,  and  the  sound 
of  his  bell  was  heard  every  minute  in  the  corridor,  crossing 
with  other  impatient  calls  which  came  from  the  rooms  of  his 
wife  and  daughter.  Luigi,  in  his  red  apron,  with  the  ease  char- 
acteristic of  stout  people,  made  funny  faces  at  the  chambermaids, 
who  were  dashing  by  with  tile  buckets  in  their  hands,  making 
them  laugh  until  the  tears  came.  He  rolled  head  over  heels 
to  the  door,  and,  tapping  with  his  knuckles,  asked  with  feigned 


THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  SAN  FRANCISCO  47 

timidity  and  with  an  obsequiousness  which  he  knew  how  to  ren- 
der idiotic: 

"Ha  sonata,  Signore?"  (Did  you  ring,  sir?) 

And  from  behind  the  door  a  slow,  grating,  insultingly  po- 
lite voice,  answered: 

"Yes,  come  in." 

What  did  the  Gentleman  from  San  Francisco  think  and 
feel  on  that  evening  forever  memorable  to  him?  It  must  be 
said  frankly:  absolutely  nothing  exceptional.  The  trouble  is 
that  everything  on  this  earth  appears  too  simple.  Even  had  he 
felt  anything  deep  in  his  heart,  a  premonition  that  something 
was  going  to  happen,  he  would  have  imagined  that  it  was  not 
going  to  happen  so  soon,  at  least  not  at  once.  Besides,  as  is 
usually  the  case  just  after  sea-sickness  is  over,  he  was  very 
hungry,  and  he  anticipated  with  real  delight  the  first  spoonful 
of  soup,  and  the  first  gulp  of  wine ;  therefore,  he  was  perform- 
ing the  habitual  process  of  dressing,  in  a  state  of  excitement 
which  left  no  time  for  reflection. 

Having  shaved  and  washed  himself,  and  dexterously  put  in 
place  a  few  false  teeth,  he  then,  standing  before  the  mirror, 
moistened  and  vigorously  plastered  what  was  left  of  his  thick 
pearly-colored  hair,  close  to  his  tawny-yellow  skull.  Then  he  put 
on,  with  some  effort,  a  tight-fitting  undershirt  of  cream-colored 
silk,  fitted  tight  to  his  strong,  aged  body  with  its  waist  swelling 
out  because  of  an  abundant  diet ;  and  he  pulled  black  silk  socks 
and  patent-leather  dancing  shoes  on  his  dry  feet  with  their  fal- 
len arches.  Squatting  down,  he  set  right  his  black  trousers, 
drawn  high  by  means  of  silk  suspenders,  adjusted  his  snow-white 
shirt  with  its  bulging  front,  put  the  buttons  into  the  shining 
cuffs,  and  began  the  painful  process  of  hunting  up  the  front 
button  under  the  hard  collar.  The  floor  was  still  swaying  under 
him,  the  tips  of  his  fingers  hurt  terribly,  the  button  at  times 
painfully  pinched  the  flabby  skin  in  the  depression  under  his 
Adam's  apple,  but  he  persevered,  and  finally,  with  hi§  eyes 


48   THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  SAN  FRANCISCO 

shining  from  the  effort,  his  face  blue  because  of  the  narrow  collar 
which  squeezed  his  neck,  he  triumphed  over  the  difficulties 
— and  all  exhausted,  he  sat  down  before  the  glass-pier,  his  re- 
flected image  repeating  itself  in  all  the  mirrors. 

"It's  terrible!"  he  muttered,  lowering  his  strong,  bald 
head  and  making  no  effort  to  understand  what  was  terrible ; 
then,  with  a  careful  and  habitual  gesture,  he  examined  his  short 
fingers  with  gouty  callosities  in  the  joints,  and  their  large,  con- 
vex, almond-colored  nails,  and  repeated  with  conviction,  "It's 
terrible ! ' ' 

But  here  the  stentorian  voice  of  the  second  gong  sounded 
throughout  the  house,  as  in  a  heathen  temple.  And  having 
risen  hurriedly,  the  Gentleman  from  San  Francisco  drew  his  tie 
more  taut  and  firm  around  his  collar,  and  pulled  together  his 
abdomen  by  means  of  a  tight  waistcoat,  put  on  a  dinner-coat,  set 
to  rights  the  cuffs,  and  for  the  last  time  he  examined  himself  in 
the  mirror. . .  This  Camella,  tawny  as  a  mulatto,  with  fiery 
eyes,  in  a  dazzling  dress  in  which  orange-color  predominated, 
must  be  an  extraordinary  dancer, — it  occurred  to  him.  And 
cheerfully  leaving  his  room,  he  walked  on  the  carpet,  to  his 
wife's  chamber,  and  asked  in  a  loud  tone  of  voice  if  they  would 
be  long. 

"In  five  minutes,  papa!"  answered  cheerfully  and  gaily  a 
girlish  voice.     "I  am  combing  my  hair." 

' '  Very  well, ' '  said  the  Gentleman  from  San  Francisco. 

And  thinking  of  her  wonderful  hair,  streaming  on  her  shoul- 
ders, he  slowly  walked  down  along  corridors  and  staircases, 
spread  with  red  velvet  carpets, — looking  for  the  library.  The 
servants  he  met  hugged  the  walls,  and  he  walked  by  as  if  not 
noticing  them.  An  old  lady,  late  for  dinner,  already  bowed 
with  years,  with  milk-white  hair,  yet  bare-necked,  in  a  light-gray 
silk  dress,  hurried  at  top  speed,  but  she  walked  in  a  mincing, 
funny,  hen-like  manner,  and  he  easily  overtook  her.  At  the 
glass  door  of  the  dining  haU  where  the  guests  had  already 


THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  SAN  FRANCISCO   49 

gathered  and  started  eating,  lie  stopped  before  the  table 
crowded  with  boxes  of  matches  and  Egyptian  cigarettes,  took  a 
great  Manilla  cigar,  and  threw  three  liras  on  the  table.  On  the 
winter  veranda  he  glanced  into  the  open  window;  a  stream  of 
soft  air  came  to  him  from  the  darkness,  the  top  of  the  old  palm 
loomed  up  before  him  afar-off,  with  its  boughs  spread  among 
the  stars  and  looking  gigantic,  and  the  distant  even  noise  of  the 
sea  reached  his  ear.  In  the  library-room,  snug,  quiet,  a  German 
in  round  silver-bowed  glasses  and  with  crazy,  wondering  eyes — 
stood  turning  the  rustling  pages  of  a  newspaper.  Having  coldly 
eyed  him,  the  Gentleman  from  San  Francisco  seated  himself  in 
a  deep  leather  arm-chair  near  a  lamp  under  a  green  hood,  put  on 
his  pince-nez  and  twitching  his  head  because  of  the  collar  which 
choked  him,  hid  himself  from  view  behind  a  newspaper.  He 
glanced  at  a  few  headlines,  read  a  few  lines  about  the  intermin- 
able Balkan  war,  and  turned  over  the  page  with  an  habitual 
gesture.  Suddenly,  the  lines  blazed  up  with  a  glassy  sheen,  the 
veins  of  his  neck  swelled,  his  eyes  bulged  out,  the  pince-nez  fell 
from  his  nose  ...  He  dashed  forward,  wanted  to  swallow 
air — and  made  a  wild,  rattling  noise;  his  lower  jaw  dropped, 
dropped  on  his  shoulder  and  began  to  shake,  the  shirt-front 
bulged  out, — and  the  whole  body,  writhing,  the  heels  catching  in 
the  carpet,  slowly  fell  to  the  floor  in  a  desperate  struggle  with 
an  invisible  foe  .    .    . 

Had  not  the  German  been  in  the  library,  this  frightful  ac- 
cident would  have  been  quickly  and  adroitly  hushed  up.  The 
body  of  the  Gentleman  from  San  Francisco  would  have  been 
rushed  away  to  some  far  comer — and  none  of  the  guests  would 
have  known  of  the  occurence.  But  the  German  dashed  out  of  the 
library  with  outcries  and  spread  the  alarm  all  over  the  house. 
And  many  rose  from  their  meal,  upsetting  chairs,  others  grow- 
ing pale,  ran  along  the  corridors  to  the  library,  and  the  question, 
asked  in  many  languages,  was  heard :  ' '  What  is  it  ?  What  has 
happened?"    And  no  one  was  able  to  answer  it  clearly,  no  one 


50   THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  SAN  FRANCISCO 

understood  anything,  for  until  this  very  day  men  still  wonder 
most  at  death  and  most  absolutely  refuse  to  believe  in  it.  The 
owner  rushed  from  one  guest  to  another,  trying  to  keep  back 
those  who  were  running  and  soothe  them  with  hasty  assurances, 
that  this  was  nothing,  a  mere  trifle,  a  little  fainting-spell  by 
which  a  Gentleman  from  San  Francisco  had  been  overcome. 
But  no  one  listened  to  him,  many  saw  how  the  footmen  and 
waiters  tore  from  the  gentleman  his  tie,  collar,  waistcoat,  the 
rumpled  evening  coat,  and  even — ^for  no  visible  reason — the 
dancing  shoes  from  his  black  silk-covered  feet.  And  he  kept 
on  writhing.  He  obstinately  struggled  with  death,  he  did  not 
want  to  yield  to  the  foe  that  attacked  him  so  unexpectedly  and 
grossly.  He  shook  his  head,  emitted  rattling  sounds  like  one 
throttled,  and  turned  up  his  eye-balls  like  one  drunk  with  wine. 
When  he  was  hastily  brought  into  Number  Forty-three, — the 
smallest,  worst,  dampest,  and  coldest  room  at  the  end  of  the 
lower  corridor, — and  stretched  on  the  bed, — his  daughter  came 
running,  her  hair  falling  over  her  shoulders,  the  skirts  of  her 
dressing-gown  thrown  open,  with  bare  breasts  raised  by  the 
corset.  Then  came  his  wife,  big,  heavy,  almost  completely 
dressed  for  dinner,  her  mouth  round  with  terror. 

In  a  quarter  of  an  hour  all  was  again  in  good  trim  at  the 
hotel.  But  the  evening  was  irreparably  spoiled.  Some  tour- 
ists returned  to  the  dining-hall  and  finished  their  dinner,  but 
they  kept  silent,  and  it  was  obvious  that  they  took  the  accident 
as  a  personal  insult,  while  the  owner  went  from  one  guest  to  an- 
other, shrugging  his  shoulders  in  impotent  and  appropriate  ir- 
ritation, feeling  like  one  innocently  victimized,  assuring  every- 
one that  he  understood  perfectly  well  "how  disagreeable  this 
is,"  and  giving  his  word  that  he  would  take  all  "the  measures 
that  are  within  his  power"  to  do  away  with  the  trouble.  Yet 
it  was  found  necessary  to  cancel  the  tarantella.  The  unneces- 
sary electric  lamps  were  put  out,  most  of  the  guests  left  for 
the  beer-hall,  and  it  grew  so  quiet  in  the  hotel  that  one  could 


THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  SAN  FRANCISCO  51 

distinctly  hear  the  tick-tock  of  the  clock  in  the  lobby,  where  a 
lonely  parrot  babbled  something  in  its  expressionless  manner, 
stirring  in  its  cage,  and  trying  to  fall  asleep  with  its  paw 
clutching  the  upper  perch  in  a  most  absurd  manner.  The  Gen- 
tleman from  San  FranciscQ  lay  stretched  in  a  cheap  iron  bed, 
under  coarse  woolen  blankets,  dimly  lighted  by  a  single  gas- 
burner  fastened  in  the  ceiling.  An  ice-bag  slid  down  on  his 
wet,  cold  forehead.  His  blue,  already  lifeless  face  grew  grad- 
ually cold ;  the  hoarse,  rattling  noise  which  came  from  his 
mouth,  lighted  by  the  glimmer  of  the  golden  fillings,  grad- 
ually weakened.  It  was  not  the  Gentleman  from  San  Francisco 
that  was  emitting  those  weird  sounds ;  he  was  no  more, — some- 
one else  did  it.  His  wife  and  daughter,  the  doctor,  the  servants 
were  standing  and  watching  him  apathetically.  Suddenly, 
that  which  they  expected  and  feared  happened.  The  rattling 
sound  ceased.  And  slowly,  slowly,  in  everybody's  sight  a  pal- 
lor stole  over  the  face  of  the  dead  man,  and  his  features  began 
to  grow  thinner  and  more  luminous,  beautiful  with  the  beauty 
that  he  had  long  shunned  and  that  became  him  well .  .  . 

The  proprietor  entered.  "Gia  e  morto,"  whispered  the 
doctor  to  him.  The  proprietor  shrugged  his  shoulders  indiffer- 
ently. The  older  lady,  with  tears  slowly  running  down  her 
cheeks,  approached  him  and  said  timidly  that  now  the  deceased 
must  be  taken  to  his  room. 

"0  no,  madam,"  answered  the  proprietor  politely,  but 
without  any  amiability  and  not  in  English,  but  in  French.  He 
was  no  longer  interested  in  the  trifle  which  the  guests  from 
San  Francisco  could  now  leave  at  his  cash-office.  "This  is  ab- 
solutely impossible,"  he  said,  and  added  in  the  form  of  an 
explanation  that  he  valued  this  apartment  highly,  and  if  he 
satisfied  her  desire,  this  would  become  known  over  Capri  and 
the  tourists  would  begin  to  avoid  it. 

The  girl,  who  had  looked  at  him  strangely,  sat  down,  and 
with   her  handkerchief  to   her   mouth,   began  to   cry.     Her 


52   THE  GENTLEMAN  FEOM  SAN  FEANCISCO 

mother's  tears  dried  up  at  once,  and  her  face  flared  up.  She 
raised  her  tone,  began  to  demand,  using  her  own  language  and 
still  unable  to  realize  that  the  respect  for  her  was  absolutely- 
gone.  The  proprietor,  with  polite  dignity,  cut  her  short:  "If 
madam  does  not  like  the  ways  of  this  hotel,  he  dare  not  detain 
her."  And  he  firmly  announced  that  the  corpse  must  leave 
the  hotel  that  very  day,  at  dawn,  that  the  police  had  been  in- 
formed, that  an  agent  would  call  immediately  and  attend  to  all 
the  necessary  formalities ...  "  Is  it  possible  to  get  on  Capri  at 
least  a  plain  coffin  ? ' '  madam  asks . . .  Unfortunately  not ;  by  no 
means,  and  as  for  making  one,  there  will  be  no  time.  It  will  be 
necessary  to  arrange  things  some  other  way. . .  For  instance, 
he  gets  English  soda-water  in  big,  oblong  boxes.  .  .  The  parti- 
tions could  be  taken  out  from  such  a  box . . . 

By  night,  the  whole  hotel  was  asleep.  A  waiter  opened  the 
window  in  Number  43 — it  faced  a  comer  of  the  garden  where 
a  consumptive  banana-tree  grew  in  the  shadow  of  a  high  stone 
wall  set  with  broken  glass  on  the  top — turned  out  the  electric 
light,  locked  the  door,  and  went  away.  The  deceased  re- 
mained alone  in  the  darkness.  Blue  stars  looked  down  at 
him  from  the  black  sky,  the  cricket  in  the  wall  started  his 
melancholy,  care-free  song.  In  the  dimly  lighted  corridor 
two  chambermaids  were  sitting  on  the  window-sill,  mending 
something.  Then  Luigi  came  in,  in  slippered  feet,  with  a  heap 
of  clothes  on  his  arm. 

'' Pronto  f" — he  asked  in  a  stage  whisper,  as  if  greatly  con- 
cerned, directing  his  eyes  toward  the  terrible  door,  at  the  end 
of  the  corridor.  And  waving  his  free  hand  in  that  direction, 
"Partenza!"  he  cried  out  in  a  whisper,  as  if  seeing  off  a  train, — 
and  the  chambermaids,  choking  with  noiseless  laughter,  put 
their  heads  on  each  other's  shoulders. 

Then,  stepping  softly,  he  ran  to  the  door,  slightly  rapped 
at  it,  and  inclining  his  ear,  asked  most  obsequiously  in  a  sub- 
dued tone  of  voice : 


THE   GENTLEMAN  FROM   SAN  FRANCISCO       53 

"Ha  sonata,  signoref" 

And,  squeezing  his  throat  and  thrusting  his  lower  jaw  for- 
ward, he  answered  himself  in  a  drawling,  grating,  sad  voice,  as 
if  from  behind  the  door: 

"Yes,  come  in     .     .     .  " 

At  dawn,  when  the  window  panes  in  Number  Forty-three 
grew  white,  and  a  damp  wind  rustled  in  the  leaves  of  the  ba- 
nana-tree, when  the  pale-blue  morning  sky  rose  and  stretched 
over  Capri,  and  the  sun,  rising  from  behind  the  distant  moun- 
tains of  Italy,  touched  into  gold  the  pure,  clearly  outlined  sum- 
mit of  Monte  Solaro,  when  the  masons,  who  mended  the  paths 
for  the  tourists  on  the  island,  went  out  to  their  work, — an 
oblong  box  was  brought  to  room  number  forty-three.  Soon 
it  grew  very  heavy  and  painfully  pressed  against  the  knees 
of  the  assistant  doorman  who  was  conveying  it  in  a  one-horse 
carriage  along  the  white  highroad  which  winded  on  the  slopes, 
among  stone  fences  and  vineyards,  all  the  way  down  to  the 
sea-coast.  The  driver,  a  sickly  man,  with  red  eyes,  in  an  old 
short-sleeved  coat  and  in  worn-out  shoes,  had  a  drunken  head- 
ache ;  all  night  long  he  had  played  dice  at  the  eatinghouse — and 
he  kept  on  flogging  his  vigorous  little  horse.  According  to  Si- 
cilian custom,  the  animal  was  heavily  burdened  with  decorations : 
all  sorts  of  bells  tinkled  on  the  bridle,  which  was  ornamented 
with  colored  woolen  fringes;  there  were  bells  also  on  the  edges 
of  the  high  saddle;  and  a  bird's  feather,  two  feet  long,  stuck  in 
the  trimmed  crest  of  the  horse,  nodded  up  and  down.  The 
driver  kept  silence:  he  was  depressed  by  his  wrongheadedness 
and  vices,  by  the  fact  that  last  night  he  had  lost  in  gambling  all 
the  copper  coins  with  which  his  pockets  had  been  full, — neither 
more  nor  less  than  four  liras  and  forty  centesimi.  But  on  such 
a  morning,  when  the  air  is  so  fresh,  and  the  sea  stretches  nearby, 
and  the  sky  is  serene  with  a  morning  serenity, — a  headache 
passes  rapidly  and  one  becomes  carefree  again.  Besides,  the 
driver  was  also  somewhat  cheered  by  the  unexpected  earnings 


54       THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  SAN  FRANCISCO 

which  the  Gentleman  from  San  Francisco,  who  bumped  his  dead 
head  against  the  walls  of  the  box  behind  his  back,  had  brought 
him.  The  little  steamer,  shaped  like  a  great  bug,  which  lay  far 
down,  on  the  tender  and  brilliant  blue  filling  to  the  brim  the 
Neapolitan  bay,  was  blowing  the  signal  of  departure, — and  the 
sounds  swiftly  resounded  all  over  Capri.  Every  bend  of  the 
island,  every  ridge  and  stone  was  seen  as  distinctly  as  if  there 
were  no  air  between  heaven  and  earth.  Near  the  quay  the  driver 
was  overtaken  by  the  head  doorman  who  conducted  in  an  auto 
the  wife  and  daughter  of  the  Gentleman  from  San  Francisco. 
Their  faces  were  pale  and  their  eyes  sunken  with  tears  and  a 
sleepless  night.  And  in  ten  minutes  the  little  steamer  was  again 
stirring  up  the  water  and  picking  its  way  toward  Sorrento 
and  Castellamare,  carrying  the  American  family  away  from 
Capri  forever.  .  .  .  Meanwhile,  peace  and  rest  were  restored 
on  the  island. 

Two  thousand  3'ears  ago  there  had  lived  on  that  island  a 
man  who  became  utterly  entangled  in  his  own  brutal  and  filthy 
actions.  For  some  unknown  reason  he  usurped  the  rule  over  mil- 
lions of  men  and  found  himself  bewildered  by  the  absurdity  of 
this  power,  while  the  fear  that  someone  might  kill  him  una- 
wares, made  him  commit  deeds  inhuman  beyond  all  measure. 
And  mankind  has  forever  retained  his  memory,  and  those  who, 
taken  together,  now  rule  the  world,  as  incomprehensibly  and, 
essentially,  as  cruelly  as  he  did, — come  from  all  the  corners  of 
the  earth  to  look  at  the  remnants  of  the  stone  house  he  inhabited, 
which  stands  on  one  of  the  steepest  cliffs  of  the  island.  On  that 
wonderful  morning  the  tourists,  who  had  come  to  Capri  for 
precisely  that  purpose,  were  still  asleep  in  the  various  hotels, 
but  tiny  long-eared  asses  under  red  saddles  were  already  being 
led  to  the  hotel  entrances.  Americans  and  Germans,  men  and 
women,  old  and  young,  after  having  arisen  and  breakfasted 
heartily,  were  to  scramble  on  them,  and  the  old  beggar-women 
of  Capri,  with  sticks  in  their  sinewy  hands,  were  again  to 


THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  SAN  FRANCISCO     55 

run  after  them  along  stony,  mountainous  paths,  all  the  way 
up  to  the  summit  of  Monte  Tiberia.  The  dead  old  man  from 
San  Francisco,  who  had  planned  to  keep  the  tourists  company 
but  who  had,  instead,  only  scared  them  by  reminding  them 
of  death,  was  already  shipped  to  Naples,  and  soothed  by  this, 
the  travelers  slept  soundly,  and  silence  reigned  over  the  island. 
The  stores  in  the  little  town  were  still  closed,  with  the  excep- 
tion of  the  fish  and  greens  market  on  the  tiny  square.  Among 
the  plain  people  who  filled  it,  going  about  their  business,  stood 
idly  by,  as  usual,  Lorenzo,  a  tall  old  boatman,  a  carefree  reveller 
and  once  a  handsome  man,  famous  all  over  Italy,  who  had 
many  times  served  as  a  model  for  painters.  He  had  brought 
and  already  sold  —  for  a  song  —  two  big  sea-crawfish,  which  he 
had  caught  at  night  and  which  were  rustling  in  the  apron 
of  Don  Cataldo,  the  cook  of  the  hotel  where  the  family  from 
San  Francisco  had  been  lodged,  —  and  now  Lorenzo  could 
stand  calmly  until  nightfall,  wearing  princely  airs,  showing 
off  his  rags,  his  clay  pipe  with  its  long  reed  mouth-piece, 
and  his  red  woolen  cap,  tilted  on  one  ear.  Meanwhile,  among 
the  precipices  of  Monte  Solare,  down  the  ancient  Phoenician 
road,  cut  in  the  rocks  in  the  form  of  a  gigantic  staircase,  two 
Abruzzi  mountaineers  were  coming  from  Anacapri.  One  car- 
ried under  his  leather  mantle  a  bagpipe,  a  large  goat's  skin 
with  two  pipes ;  the  other,  something  in  the  nature  of  a  wooden 
flute.  They  walked,  and  the  entire  country,  joyous,  beautiful, 
sunny,  stretched  below  them;  the  rocky  shoulders  of  the  is- 
land, which  lay  at  their  feet,  the  fabulous  blue  in  which  it 
swam,  the  shining  morning  vapors  over  the  sea  westward,  be- 
neath the  dazzling  sun,  and  the  wavering  masses  of  Italy's 
mountains,  both  near  and  distant,  whose  beauty  human  word  is 
powerless  to  render.  .  .  Midway  they  slowed  up.  Overshad- 
owing the  road  stood,  in  a  grotto  of  the  rock  wall  of  Monte  So- 
lare, the  Holy  Virgin,  all  radiant,  bathed  in  the  warmth  and 
the  splendor  of  the  sun.    The  rust  of  her  snow-white  plaster- 


56   THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  SAN  FRANCISCO 

of -Paris  vestures  and  queenly  crown  was  touched  into  gold,  and 
there  were  meekness  and  mercy  in  her  eyes  raised  toward  the 
heavens,  toward  the  eternal  and  beatific  abode  of  her  thrice- 
blessed  Son.  They  bared  their  heads,  applied  the  pipes  to  their 
lips, — and  praises  flowed  on,  candid  and  humbly-joyous,  praises 
to  the  sun  and  the  morning,  to  Her,  the  Immaculate  Intercessor 
for  all  who  suffer  in  this  evil  and  beautiful  world,  and  to  Him 
who  had  been  bom  of  her  womb  in  the  cavern  of  Bethlehem,  in 
a  hut  of  lowly  shepherds  in  distant  Judea. 

As  for  the  body  of  the  dead  Gentleman  from  San  Fran- 
cisco, it  was  on  its  way  home,  to  the  shores  of  the  New  World, 
where  a  grave  awaited  it.  Having  undergone  many  humilia- 
tions and  suffered  much  human  neglect,  having  wandered  about 
a  week  from  one  port  warehouse  to  another,  it  finally  got 
on  that  same  famous  ship  which  had  brought  the  family,  such 
a  short  while  ago  and  with  such  a  pomp,  to  the  Old  World. 
But  now  he  was  concealed  from  the  living:  in  a  tar-coated 
coffin  he  was  lowered  deep  into  the  black  hold  of  the  steamer. 
And  again  did  the  ship  set  out  on  its  far  sea  journey.  At  night 
it  sailed  by  the  island  of  Capri,  and,  for  those  who  watched 
it  from  the  island,  its  lights  slowly  disappearing  in  the  dark 
sea,  it  seemed  infinitely  sad.  But  there,  on  the  vast  steamer, 
in  its  lighted  halls  shining  with  brilliance  and  marble,  a  noisy 
dancing  party  was  going  on,  as  usual. 

On  the  second  and  the  third  night  there  was  again  a  ball — 
this  time  in  mid-ocean,  during  a  furious  storm  sweeping  over  the 
ocean,  which  roared  like  a  funeral  mass  and  rolled  up  mountain- 
ous seas  fringed  with  mourning  silvery  foam.  The  Devil,  who 
from  the  rocks  of  Gibraltar,  the  stony  gateway  of  two  worlds, 
watched  the  ship  vanish  into  night  and  storm,  could  hardly 
distinguish  from  behind  the  snow  the  innumerable  fiery  eyes  of 
the  ship.  The  Devil  was  as  huge  as  a  cliff,  but  the  ship  was 
even  bigger,  a  many-storied,  many-stacked  giant,  created  by  the 
arrogance  of  the  New  Man  with  the  old  heart.     The  blizzard 


THE   GENTLEMAN  FROM   SAN  FRANCISCO       57 

battered  the  ship's  rigging  and  its  broad-necked  stacks,  whit- 
ened with  snow,  but  it  remained  firm,  majestic — and  terrible. 
On  its  uppermost  deck,  amidst  a  snowy  whirlwind  there  loomed 
up  in  loneliness  the  cozy,  dimly  lighted  cabin,  where,  only  half 
awake,  the  vessel's  ponderous  pilot  reigned  over  its  entire  mass, 
bearing  the  semblance  of  a  pagan  idol.  He  heard  the  wailing 
moans  and  the  furious  screeching  of  the  siren,  choked  by  the 
storm,  but  the  nearness  of  that  which  was  behind  the  wall  and 
which  in  the  last  account  was  incomprehensible  to  him,  removed 
his  fears.  He  was  reassured  by  the  thought  of  the  large,  armored 
cabin,  which  now  and  then  was  filled  with  mysterious  rumbling 
sounds  and  with  the  dry  creaking  of  blue  fires,  flaring  up 
and  exploding  around  a  man  with  a  metallic  headpiece,  who 
was  eagerly  catching  the  indistinct  voices  of  the  vessels  that 
hailed  him,  hundreds  of  miles  away.  At  the  very  bottom,  in 
the  under-water  womb  of  the  ''Atlantis,"  the  huge  masses  of 
tanks  and  various  other  machines,  their  steel  parts  shining 
dully,  wheezed  with  steam  and  oozed  hot  water  and  oil ;  here  was 
the  gigantic  kitchen,  heated  by  hellish  furnaces,  where  the  mo- 
tion of  the  vessel  was  being  generated;  here  seethed  those 
forces  terrible  in  their  concentration  which  were  transmitted  to 
the  keel  of  the  vessel,  and  into  that  endless  round  tunnel,  which 
was  lighted  by  electricity,  and  looked  like  a  gigantic  cannon 
barrel,  where  slowly,  with  a  punctuality  and  certainty  that 
crushes  the  human  soul,  a  colossal  shaft  was  revolving  in  its  oily 
nest,  like  a  living  monster  stretching  in  its  lair.  As  for  the 
middle  part  of  the  "Atlantis,"  its  warm,  luxurious  cabins, 
dining-rooms,  and  halls,  they  radiated  light  and  joy,  were  astir 
with  a  chattering  smartly-dressed  crowd,  were  filled  with  the 
fragrance  of  fresh  flowers,  and  resounded  with  a  string  orchestra. 
And  again  did  the  slender  supple  pair  of  hired  lovers  painfully 
turn  and  twist  and  at  times  clash  convulsively  amid  the  splendor 
of  lights,  silks,  diamonds,  and  bare  feminine  shoulders:  she — 
a  sinfully  modest  pretty  girl,  with  lowered  eyelashes  and  an 


58       THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  SAN  FRANCISCO 

innocent  hair-dressing,  he — a  tall,  young  man,  with  black  hair, 
looking  as  if  they  were  pasted,  pale  with  powder,  in  most  ex- 
quisite patent-leather  shoes,  in  a  narrow,  long-skirted  dress- 
coat, — a  beautiful  man  resembling  a  leech.  And  no  one  knew 
that  this  couple  has  long  since  been  weary  of  torturing  them- 
selves with  a  feigned  beatific  torture  under  the  sounds  of 
shamefully-melancholy  music ;  nor  did  any  one  who  know  what 
lay  deep,  deep,  beneath  them,  on  the  very  bottom  of  the  hold,  in 
the  neighborhood  of  the  gloomy  and  sultry  maw  of  the  ship, 
that  heavily  struggled  with  the  ocean,  the  darkness,  and  the 
storm.  .  . 


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The  New  Convert 

A  Play  of  the  Russian  Revolution  in  4  Acts 

By  SERGEI  STEPNIAK 

Translated  by  THOMAS  B.  EYGES 

With  an  Introduction  by 
PRINCE  PETER  KROPOTKIN 


Stepniak  occupies  one  of  the  foremost  places  among 
the  heroes  that  the  Russian  Revolutionary  movement 
has  produced.  An  artillery  officer  in  the  Russian  army 
at  twenty,  he  later  became  disgusted  with  the  barbarity 
of  the  Russian  government  and  devoted  himself  to  the 
cause  of  the  Nihilists. 

In  this  play  Stepniak  depicts  the  real  Nihilist  —  not 
the  bloodthirsty,  bewhiskered,  bomb-throwing  ruffian  as 
he  is  generally  pictured  to  be,  but  the  gentle,  sensitive, 
humanly  loving  and  suffering  friend  of  the  down-trod- 
den people. 

This  play  is  not  a  problem  play  or  a  closet-drama, 
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Anglo -German  Rivalry  as 
a  Cause  of  the  Great  War 


By  OSCAR  A.  MARTI 


The  following  extract  from  the  vision  of  the  late 
Tolstoi  written  in  1910,  is  the  keynote  of  Mr.  Marti 's 
book,  the  title  of  which  is  self-explanatory:  "I  see  float- 
ing upon  the  surface  of  the  sea  of  human  fate,  the  huge 
silhouette  of  a  nude  woman.  She  is  in  her  beauty,  her 
poise,  her  smiles,  her  jewels  —  a  super- Venus.  Nations 
rush  madly  after  her,  each  eager  to  attract  her  especially. 
But  she  . .  .  flirts  with  all.  In  her  hair  ornaments  of  dia- 
monds and  rubies  is  engraved  her  name  'Commercial- 
ism ! '  .  .  .  Much  destruction  follows  in  her  wake  .  .  .  and 
the  flame  of  war  that  the  beautiful  courtesan  carries  from 
city  to  city  and  from  country  to  country." 

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e  Heart  of  Nami-San 


A     Japanese     Novel     of 
Intrigue,  Love,  and  War 

by  KENJIRO  TOKUTOMI 

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English    Version    by 
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